Eisoptrophobia
by pardonthelitany
Summary: COMPLETE. AU. Four years have passed since the end of the war, but no one is quite the way they should be, especially Ginny. Lost in the past is no way to move through life, and so her journey home begins. D/G
1. Chapter 1: Are You Ready?

Chapter 1: Are You Ready?

* * *

_Older chests reveal themselves  
__Like a crack in a wall  
__Starting small, and grow in time  
__And we always seem to need the help  
__Of someone else  
__To mend that shelf  
__Too many books  
__Read me your favourite line  
__Some things in life may change  
__And some things  
__They stay the same  
__Like time, there's always time  
__On my mind  
__So pass me by, I'll be fine  
__Just give me time.  
_-Damien Rice, 'Older Chests'

* * *

When she wakes some nights, she covers her heart with her hand as she tries to steady her breathing. She realizes it was just a dream, and she rolls over in her empty bed, staring out the window at the Empire State Building and the flashing of lights. It's cold, but she doesn't reach for the heater, she just bundles the blankets around her chin.

It was just a dream, she reminds herself.

But when she closes her eyes, the yellow light hits fair hair and cold gray eyes turn to her. "Are you ready?" he asks.

She sighs into her pillow, but it is just a dream, and she cannot chase it away.

The burning in her palm feels like yesterday and the stairway looks the same. She stares at him, with her eyes closed tightly, as the world falls apart. He is handcuffed. "Are you ready?"

Some nights she tries to call out to him. "What should I be ready for?" "What's coming?" or even a simple "No!". But most nights she is silent and he disappears and she is alone.

And most mornings she wakes with alcohol and nicotine before she remembers the courtyard and the cigarettes between classes and she thinks about Azkaban and tries to forget.

...

Ginny woke with a start to the sound of the phone. She peeled her eyelids open, knowing who was calling and not wanting to pick up. It was slightly selfish of her, she knew, but there was no reason to answer it right now. After all, Hermione knew that it was only eight in New York city and that Ginny was planning to sleep in today.

All things considered, she thought it was fair to let it go through to the answering machine. The body beside her apparently disagreed, and when he moved, Ginny became aware of her own nudity.

"You going to answer that?" he asked, his voice tinged with sleepy irritation.

Ginny glanced over. It was Mark, which was bad enough, but he too was nude, which made it worse. She chewed her bottom lip, sitting up and staring at his pale back before glancing at the phone.

Finally, the recording picked up and her unnaturally cheerful voice greeted the caller. "Hello," it said, "You have reached Ginevra Weasley, I'm not here right now, so please leave a message after the tone."

She groaned when Hermione started in and began to stand up, totally aware of her body and the fact that Mark had been equally drunk last night.

"Ginny, it's Hermione, I'm just calling to remind you to be at the airport at least two hours before your flight. And once again — Ron and I are more than happy to meet you, if you like. Call me back, and I'll give you the itinerary for next week. Please, call me back. Thanks."

Ginny stared balefully at the phone before wrenching open the door to the bathroom. She hated the pleading hopeful tone of Hermione's voice, but she could hardly blame the other witch. This would not be the first time that Ginny had told her she'd be in touch and had failed to do so.

Mark was sitting up when she glanced back into the room. "Are you going somewhere?" he asked, as he pulled on his trousers.

"Yeah," she called, turning on the shower. Mark was a bartender at the pub across the street. He had been trying to get her into bed since she had arrived here two years ago, and last night, he must have succeeded. She wished she could remember — loathe as she was to admit — the tattoos across his chest and arms had always intrigued her.

"I'm heading home."

"For how long?" he called, sounding as if he had moved to the far side of her studio apartment. He must have noticed the boxes.

"I'm moving back," she said, digging her fingers into her scalp as she shampooed.

"I thought you said you would never go back," he replied, after a moment. She turned, seeing him in the doorway. He was buttoning his black oxford, covering up the red and green dragons across his chest and, she got the feeling, deliberately avoiding her eyes.

She briefly wondered when she had told him that, but knowing her predilection for bourbon and his ability to get people to talk, she brushed it aside. "Well, I never planned to."

He glanced up at her, and then nodded. "I'll be leaving then. Thanks for last night."

And then he was gone, and she was rinsing the conditioner from her hair, the slimy substance rolling down her back and down the drain, wondering what had actually brought her to this. With a sigh, she turned off the shower and then headed to her bedroom.

It was too quiet now, and too empty. But she didn't question anything, just sat on her couch and stared at the wall until the buzzer went off and she had to get up to let the movers in.

...

When Ginny had decided to become a psychiatrist, she couldn't have explained why. She couldn't even explain it now, because the decision had been made too long ago. Perhaps it was because she preferred listening to talking. Perhaps because she wanted to help. It didn't really matter though, not anymore; what mattered was why she decided to stay a psychiatrist, and it wasn't because of her patients. It was because of the veterans, because of Harry Potter — not that he would ever really want the credit.

Harry Potter had a thing about mirrors. It wasn't really much of a thing, more of an irrational fear, but she didn't like to label it as fear of any sort. It was one of those things that sometimes made him go crazy with rage, or get trashed, or even cry. In restaurants, he would sit as far from them as possible. He had all of his clothing tailored at his flat so he never had to look at himself trying things on. And some mornings, he charmed the bathroom mirror black and didn't shave.

Ginny had wanted to stop studying Harry a long time ago, but that desire had faded with each new psychosis. She thought this one probably had to do with the fabled mirrors in the Malfoy dungeons that reflected the prisoners as being tortured or dying. Or perhaps the mirrors of the wizarding world that sniffed at him haughtily and picked on his insecurities. Most likely, though, it was the Mirror of Erised, the reflection of himself, a face to give his weaknesses. A face that he resented simply because of his inability to walk away from delusion.

It was one of those sorts of things. One of the things she spent her life after the war studying; all so she could rationalize them away. It was a fear of being watched or a fear of seeing oneself.

But it had been hard to rationalize Harry when she had been there, so she left it to the journals she had started after the war. They had become her escape from her patients and all of their irrational fears that she spent hours with for the two years following Voldemort's defeat. She rationalized everything away now, handing over a tiny slip that would grant an orange bottle of relief, however short-lived or fake. She even rationalized away her own escape.

But she left the prescription drugs to those who believed in them.

She had always been there for Harry before. She had been there the night before he set off. The night he melted the hand mirror Sirius had given him before he cried into her lap. And that night she walked away and decided that it was not him, but the world and the lives that he had saved, that she loved so dearly.

She had been there when the fear was supposed to crumble away. When Harry Potter had realized that he had nothing left to really be afraid of. And she had been there for him for the two years following- the bouts of depression, the drunkenness, even the occasional drugs. She had watched him fall apart, first as his friend, and then his lover, and she had done her best to be patient and care for him the way he needed. For some reason, she figured she owed him that much.

He asked her once what it was like to have everything figured out, but she hadn't had a way to respond. The war was over, and yet they all walked through the streets with one hand in their pocket, tips of their fingers resting on their wands. They kept their backs to walls. They double checked the locks on doors. They jumped. They were veterans of an all-encompassing war, and it showed.

It was just one of those things: Eisoptrophobia, a big and bulky unrecognized word. The term for his condition — for a fear of mirrors. Even on off days, when Harry would sink into depression, when his stubble would grow longer and longer, when he got agitated and stayed in the dark, even then, Ginny admired him. At least he admitted to fear of himself in such an obvious way. The rest of them were still hiding it.

They all carried their burdens differently now. It was just one of those things.

...

Unsurprisingly, Ginny never did call Hermione back. She couldn't be arsed. She did, however, get all of her boxes down the stairs, sign some paperwork, and eventually catch a cab and head off to JFK.

It had been sunny when she had left the apartment, the light hitting her unstained floor and the white furniture, giving everything a pale, simplistic glow. The tall buildings lining the street had glowed in the sunlight, sending reflections from the glass onto the streets below. Sunny days in New York were always her favorite. But by the time she got to the airport, the rain clouds had set in, and she was fairly certain that the flight would be late.

She prayed it would be late.

But the rain skirted over, passing them and heading somewhere else, and she sank back with a glass of champagne into her business class seat. Thank God for business class. Or thank Hermione.

She didn't even question the cost, just sat there, thinking about all that she was leaving behind again. She was determined not to think about all that she had left behind before, and she was asleep before she even got the command to buckle her seat belt.

...

When her plane finally landed, it was midday in London. She had slept the whole flight and felt hungry and lethargic as she waited for her bags. She was back.

The thought kept racing through her mind, but she didn't feel any different. She felt the same as she had when she had woken up the previous morning in her small apartment. Weariness hung over her, and she knew that she had dreamed on the flight, but the subject was just out of grasp.

Hermione had helped her set up an apartment, and Ginny was looking forward to arriving to another unfurnished room filled, hopefully, with her already-arrived boxes. There would at least be books. Books but no phone. It sounded perfect.

The woman on the PA directed her to a carousal finally to collect her bags and luckily they were among the first ones down. She picked them up, readjusting, and then headed off towards customs.

"Anything to declare?" Absolutely nothing.

She caught a cab outside of the airport, sighing at what she knew would be an expensive ride, but glad to avoid the tube, and she fed him the address of the apartment she had scribbled down from her machine. He nodded and then they were moving, slowly, from the airport.

Ginny watched the fields surrounding Heathrow disappear and the city slowly transform from ugly suburbs to office buildings to row houses to areas she recognized. Memories were cropping up now, caught in places that she had visited, streets that she had walked down once. The entire journey took almost an hour, but it felt like reliving a lifetime.

Finally the driver stopped in front of a brownstone that she actually liked. They were close to the inner city, close to the underground, and close to a taxi point; Hermione had a good eye. She thanked the driver, shelled out a ridiculous amount of notes and then struggled to get her bags out. At long last, it was time to rest.

And while, theoretically, there was no problem with that — it was still early in New York and Ginny was worn out — her nerves were twitching. She was nervous, scared even. There were too many people here that she had been avoiding for two years. So when she sat down on her couch, the only piece of furniture in the high-ceilinged, first floor, beautiful Victorian apartment, it was no wonder that closing her eyes didn't bring any sleep.

After ten minutes, she finally crawled back up to sitting and glanced around the room. Hermione had taken care to put a phone in, she realized disdainfully, and there was a fireplace with a pile of logs waiting to be lit and what looked suspiciously like Floo powder sitting next to it.

There were a few boxes piled up here and there, things that had arrived before her, but none of the things that she had sent with the movers. She irrationally cursed the crappy service, before finally standing and rooting through one of the bags she brought for clean things.

Thankfully, the water had been turned on, and she took a shower, staring at the thoughtful stocking of toiletries. She smiled, reminding herself to thank Hermione later. Skin scrubbed clean, she got out and dressed quickly and dried her hair carefully with her wand. It was a little frizzier than it would have been with a blow-dryer, but a lot faster. The apartment was freezing.

And then, less than three-quarters of an hour after she had arrived at her new flat, she left it, locking it with both her key and her wand before wandering off down the street.

It had apparently been a warm September in London, but as October began the trees that lined the streets were finally changing into bright coppers and golds. Autumn had always seemed somewhat bitter to her, perhaps because it was always when her brothers left for school. There was just something not right about such a glorious beauty masking something so sad and cruel. Fall was death. It was change. It was like a war coming to an end. The long summer stretched out in unbearable heat and ended only in death. And then after the glory and the celebrating and the relief, the horrid reality settles in. And then the heat that you hated is missed.

And though she had probably stretched her analogy too far, that was how Ginny felt. She had been ready, four years ago for the war to end, for the pain and the death to stop. And then they had won and the mess had been semi-tidied up and they had settled down into ... life. But Ginny, and most everyone else, had had no idea of how to live. There was no clear evil anymore. There was nothing to fight. There was just a day by day existence that stretched out into infinity. It was a whole new precedent.

It just wasn't black and white anymore and there was no one to blame.

It was too sunny out to compliment her thoughts, though, and Ginny pushed them from her mind. She felt her step lightening gradually in the crisp air, as she walked in unity with the people on the street, all of them rushing to their work, blissfully unaware of her turmoil.

It was almost perfect, _almost_ right, but then the clouds darted over the sun, and someone jostled her elbow, turning to snap at her. Ginny glared at his back, feeling the air slowly deflate from her chest. With a shaky sigh, she went inside a coffee shop for some caffeine and when she came out, after waiting in line for far too long, she walked into the shop next door and bought a pack of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate.

The guy had laughed at her, telling her he hoped her day got better. She had glared at him, too. Then she had glared at the cigarette box, which clearly told her she was going to die a slow and painful death. A moment later, she was cursing herself for missing America.

Her first drag was guilt-ridden but still a bit like heaven as she leaned against the side of a doorway, closing her eyes. Her shoulders slumped forward, and a sigh loosened her tensed back. The second drag called back a memory that she had yet to forget, and for a minute, she let herself go.

_She had been standing at the door to her courtyard. A small abandoned haven that she discovered in her first year with the help of Tom, when she running from Filch. It had been February when she had found it, and slipping outside in the cold had left her frozen, but she had been drawn to the tiny space — no bigger than an Azkaban cell and just as enclosed. The walls went straight up, with no windows looking into it, and there was a small circular opening at the top, letting in a limited amount of sky. Even though she hadn't been able to see much on that first night, she had gone back the next day, and almost every day since._

_But on _that _day, it was windy, which was strange in itself. But there it was — rustling the long dead brambles and shrubs and blowing out her second match._

_As the flame sizzled and the smoke spiraled into the air, Ginny let out a stream of curses that would have made Ron stutter and Fred ruffle her hair affectionately. She kept going, muttering to herself as she grabbed her third and last match. That one fizzled out as well, and she couldn't stop herself from screaming shortly. It had been one hell of a day._

"_Quite the mouth, little one," a voice from nowhere said._

_Ginny spun around, coming face to face with Draco Malfoy, and she lost it. She inhaled planning a long tirade, her face already reddening and her hands in fists at her side, when she glanced down at his outstretched hand and felt herself deflate._

_There was a lighter resting in his palm. She took it from him and lit her cigarette, thanking him unconsciously as she handed it back._

_She leaned against the wall next to the door, resting her head against the old ivy that had grown there and long since died, as she inhaled. And slowly, almost painfully so, the horrid tension left her shoulders, her back eased, and the world stopped rocking as much._

_She went for a second as he went for another, and again, she borrowed the silver lighter, remarkable only in its simplicity. Finally, he broke the silence. "So I guess you heard about Lavender then."_

_She glared at him as he stared at the ground. He seemed almost remorseful, but she brushed it off as insanity. "And her brother," she snapped._

_He shrugged. "And her parents and a bus full of Muggles," he returned, letting his head fall back against the wall._

_He stared unemotionally at the circular patch of sky; and she watched as he inhaled and exhaled, his body still tense, his robes opened, his tie loosened. She watched as he tried to hold whatever he thought he was together. His pale skin was as transparent as tissue paper and she could practically see his dark eyes through his closed eye lids. He had gotten taller, she realized, startled, and he'd lost even more weight. A flicker of something like worry traveled through her chest, and she shook it off, not looking at him again until he pushed himself off of the wall._

_He held out his hand, the lighter clasped in his fingers, and she took it from him. He nodded– "Ginevra" –and then disappeared._

_It wasn't until he was gone that she was angry with him for disturbing her haven and wondering how he got there. She thought about going back to the tower, but instead, she lit another, pocketing his lighter._

The wind tickled her face, and her eyes shot open. Ginny was a little surprised at how clearly she could remember the feel of that day, the panic and the loss, and that way she had seen him then, sometime toward the end of her fifth year. When she remembers what he looked like, she realizes that she should have known then. It had all been there, written in the way he had been waiting for her to ask her question, in the tautness of his forehead, and in the way he had rolled his sleeves up past his elbows.

She wasn't ready for this. She wasn't ready to remember him, though she had never really forgotten. And the memories trickled back in slowly, seeping through her skin. There were tears gathering in her eyes now, as she turned and began to quickly retrace her steps back to her flat. The rain was coming.

Her third drag felt a bit like cowardice. Her next, acceptance. And the last one just felt good.

She needed a drink.

...

The attack on Lavender and her brother Dave hadn't been the first incident where Hogwarts students had disappeared or wound up dead. The first had taken the Ravenclaw twins in second year. Then the third year Slytherin who had taken to eating his meals at the far end of the table was just gone one day. The third had been a Hufflepuff in the year above her. Lavender and Dave had been the fourth, but not the last. Ginny tried, but she couldn't remember any of the others' names.

She felt the age old pain winding up inside of her, wrapping its cottony claws around her chest and tightening. She needed to visit the wall.

The wall stood by the lake, overlooking all of the Hogwarts grounds, and listed on it were the names of every single victim who had fought for peace. Cedric Diggory was the first and Sirius the second, but the list stretched on after that, covering the blue stone that shone with the memories of Dumbledore's eyes.

It would be time to visit soon.

...

Ginny watched, through hazy eyes, as Pansy lit a cigarette and leaned against the bar, exhaling smoke over the surface with a look of careful disdain. Ginny waited for the bartender to snap and tell Pansy to put it out, but nothing was said.

When she caught Ginny looking, she gestured imperiously with the curled white paper and smirked. "Muggle-repelling charms," she said, breaking the careful silence.

Ginny let out a disbelieving snort. "You're incorrigible."

Pansy laughed and held out the pack, letting Ginny take one and light it, before they both leaned back against the bar and surveyed the crowded club.

They fell back into silence, smoking slowly, neither needing to speak.

After Pansy had ground the butt into the floor with her startlingly high heels, she turned back to the bartender and ordered two shots of tequila. And then it was just like it had been after the war first ended, and they were nineteen again. It felt innocent again, getting drunk for the pleasure of it, downing shots and losing themselves in music and impersonal caresses. They hit the London club scene hard, and it wasn't until they finally retired to Ginny's new flat, sweaty, spent, and full of chips, that the questions came.

"So," Pansy said, "Why'd you come back?"

Ginny's only response was to sigh and lean her head back against the couch, still the only piece of furniture in her bare apartment.

"It was time."

Pansy didn't comment on that, just shrugged, and the silence fell again. The alcohol was slipping away, sending Ginny into a spinning daze and casting the room into harsh patches of light and shade as she sat, trying to remember what had propelled her return.

"Hermione offered me a job researching for her next project, I just figured I might as well get it over with."

Pansy smirked, "Granger's writing _another_ book?"

"I figured that was as good an excuse as any, though I'm not taking the job. I've got an offer at a private practice," Ginny responded with a shrug. She fumbled around for another cigarette and then started to search for anything that she could use as an ashtray. "It was just time, though. New York was boring me, and I started to think about what I had left behind. And I couldn't remember any reason to not come back, and so I called Hermione, got on a plane, and came home."

Finally, she found an empty pill bottle at the bottom of her purse and pulled it out. She lit the cigarette and positioned the bottle next to her for easy access.

Pansy laughed outright when she realized what Ginny had been looking for, and with a tap of her wand, turned the bottle into a hideous crystal ashtray. Ginny glared at the other woman for a moment, before a smile crept onto her face.

"I guess I'm going to have to get used to magic again. It's been a while since I've relied on it."

Pansy smiled again, laying down awkwardly on the couch and kicking off her heels. "Don't let me fall asleep like this, it will kill my back."

"You know, Gin," Pansy said after a moment, her head rolling around as she surveyed the flat. "I'm all about minimalism, but this flat is hideously bare."

Ginny laughed. "Give it time, Pans, I just got back today."

Pansy shot her a look — one of the many inscrutable looks that Ginny had yet to classify. "I'm flattered that you chose to spend your first night back with me, but shouldn't you have called one of your brothers and perhaps let them take you out for dinner?"

Ginny shrugged, smiling wanly. "I don't even know if they know that I've come back."

Pansy was silent for a minute. "Is Miss Ginevra avoiding something?"

"Always," Ginny said, grinning with the alcohol.

Pansy nodded as her eyes slipped closed and the tequila took her into sleep, and Gin just stared at the long legs taking up most of the couch before finishing her cigarette.

She and Pansy had always been a strange pair. They had become friends sometime during Ginny's sixth year when Pansy's parents had been murdered and she had started spending more time in the library than in her common room. It was an unfair game that the two played, delving into insults and alcohol and endless discussions on fashion and literature. They were strangely like-minded, and Ginny had missed her greatly when the girl had fled to the continent with Blaise near the end of the war.

It was Blaise's death that had brought her home and thrown them together again, both living in London after it ended.

The two fit together nicely because they both knew exactly what the other needed to not speak about. Then they spoke about it anyway, with a tinge of humor and mocking, and somehow, that made everything okay. They had boundaries, and then they crossed them. It was better that way.

Ginny cast her eyes back to Pansy's legs, stretched and long, covered partially in the black silk skirt that she had worn out. With slight drowsiness, Ginny pulled out her wand and lengthened the couch, making it much longer than she had intended, before she settled into her end and closed her eyes.

Tomorrow was going to be one hell of a day, but she put it out of her mind and settled back into the couch. She prayed the room would stop spinning and that her hangover would be fairly painless, smiling as she fell asleep without even noticing.

...

It was hard being back, just as expected. In the first week, there was a windfall of guests and she was almost as shocked at their proclamations of missing her as she was to find out she hadn't missed them at all.

Harry had come and smiled at her, giving her a hug and saying that she looked good. She wasn't sure what that meant, but it had made her uncomfortable. She hadn't left because of him, she had been expecting their breakup as long as she had hoped for their relationship. Well, not that long, but she had expected it as soon as the relationship had begun. She hadn't exactly been torn up enough to move to a different country for two years.

Twenty-six months, Hermione had corrected unconsciously when they had met for lunch. Ginny had found herself laughing at the witch's precision, hanging onto the hope that it wouldn't get irritating too fast now that she was home again.

Her family had held a giant party and she felt the gap at the table even more clearly then. But Bill had given her a hug and whispered in her ear: _We still don't blame you_. Her father had insisted she come sit beside him at the table and tell him all about the Muggles in Manhattan. Ron had tried to convince her to hold his daughter. Ginny couldn't believe she had missed that. He accepted her honest apology with a kiss on the cheek. Her mum had fretted about her weight and the crime rise in London. Fred and George had offered her jobs, from cleaning to running a branch of the store. Percy had given her a book. It was perfect and more than she deserved.

Neville had shown up at her flat with a potted-plant and a message from Pansy, which made Gin's eyes widen a bit. He smiled at her then and asked her how she was doing, and she had let loose the stream of words built up within her, talking almost constantly for an hour. He had nodded and then calmed her with a kiss to her temple.

Ginny thought it was funny how you could disappear for two years, leaving everything and yet nothing behind and come back to find it all exactly the same and yet completely different. She felt the age-old remorse, the memories of loss billowing up under the surface — all of it coming to a head now that she was home. She didn't want to deal with it again, she had gotten through it once, and she didn't want to have to struggle to move forward again.

She had smiled and nodded when Neville asked to take her out for drinks.

Things, then, progressed from there; life rearranged itself without much effort, as it tended to. It's hard for Ginny to remember exactly what happened in the first month of her return, but if anyone asked, she would have smiled charmingly and said that she furnished her flat, bought lots of clothes, and got a job. Then she would have changed the subject, her eyes driving deep into theirs, begging them to open up for her. And they would.

She was shocked often with how little changed. Routines reorganized, but did not alter, and the people that she knew and loved sill lived lives remarkably similar to the lives they had lived before; and so did she. There was less pain for them, though, they were pulling it together. Ginny wasn't, she realized too soon. She was falling apart.

Now, when Ginny thought about it, The only purpose New York had ever had, was to put off Ginny's own feelings of the war. When the smoke had cleared, Ginny had given up on being a Mediwitch, and had moved on to doing what she had always wanted to do anyway. She had listened to hundreds of other people's tales of the war. Stories of horror, of heroism, of sadness. They had plagued her, and the only way to protect herself had been a layer of cold that had served as a wall between herself and her life.

She had moved with all the responsiveness of one not truly there, and when Harry, a beautiful mess that needed fixing, had knocked on her door less than three months after it had ended, she had invited him into her house, her bed, her life, but he had never gotten near her heart. And so, when he left her, or when she had asked him to leave, she had watched him go with an odd sort of feeling that something was wrong.

Because Harry Potter was like glass, and he had been shattered so horribly that the pieces wouldn't go back together. There was no healing him, there was no fixing him, and the puzzle that was him would never be finished.

In the end, it had been a mutual decision; he had left, and she had stayed, and then later, she too had abandoned London.

And now that she'd returned, so had the past. And she had been shattered by it as well. The cold had come down, had dissipated in New York, replaced by a simple happiness and a hopeful delusion that she had moved on. But that's the problem with lying to yourself, no matter how beautiful the lie, eventually, it catches up to you and the honest truth that you didn't want to face is there, staring you down.

* * *

Thanks for reading! xxx


	2. Chapter 2: Of Time Transfixed

Chapter 2: Of Time Transfixed

* * *

_It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song.  
__You can't believe it; you were always singing along.  
__It was so easy and the words so sweet.  
__You can't remember; you try to feel the beat.  
__Ee-ee-ee-ee-Ee-ee-ee-ee–Eet, eet, eet  
__You spend half of your life trying to fall behind.  
__you're using your headphones to drown out your mind.  
__It was so easy and the words so sweet.  
__You can't remember; you try to move your feet.  
__Ee-ee-ee-ee-Ee-ee-ee-ee–Eet, eet, eet  
_ -Regina Spektor, 'Eet'

* * *

_Dumbledore met her eyes. "I'm sorry, Ginny."_

_She backed up. "What do you mean you're sorry? Why does it matter? It won't — it can't — change anything!"_

_Dumbledore sighed, his shoulders hunching. "Ginny, I know you're confused, but..."_

_"But?"_

_He looked up at her and Ginny gasped, stepping back again. There were tears behind his glasses, crystal clear droplets threatening to spill down his cheeks. _

_"You want to know your part in all of this, and I–I don't know what to tell you."_

_Ginny fumbled for her handkerchief, looking in the pockets of her robe. Finally, she pulled out the pale blue square of cloth and held it out to him. He took it with a small smile, but didn't brush away his tears. _

_Ginny closed her own eyes, stopping the tears welling in them. Later, apparently, there would be plenty of time to cry. _

_When she glanced back up at Dumbledore, he looked so sad. Sorrow filled him to the brim, one that recognized, like all great sorrows do, all of the ways that he might have stopped this, all of the ways he might have changed it. A sorrow full of regret. Overpowering and overwhelming._

_He folded his hands across one another and stared at her calmly. "You–You're their Magdalene." _

Ginny sat up in bed, her heart pounding as she pulled herself from sleep. "Just a dream. It was just a dream." And, for once, it was because that was not how it had happened at all.

...

Ginny walked into her new office with the strange calm of someone who did this everyday and saw nothing new worth looking at twice. It was crisp and cool, different shades of white covered the walls, the tile floor a comforting pale grey. Coupled with the aged black leather armchairs and couches, it was just posh enough with a level of comfort Ginny could definitely grow used to.

She loved psychiatric offices, they were all exactly the same — always so artificial, but only if you pulled up the corner of the rug and spotted the dust swept underneath. There was something magical in the simplicity of the gesture, though. At least this one was more comfortable than the closet-sized office she had worked in at St. Mungo's when she'd treated the PTSS patients.

But it was so much less fitting to her taste than the comfortable tweed and plaid basement office she had worked out of in Manhattan. There it had all been businessmen and rich housewives who would take the time to sniff haughtily before sitting in one of the surprisingly comfortable overstuffed armchairs.

Here, though it was a Muggle office, she was back to treating witches and wizards. Hopefully some of them would have something more interesting to talk about than whether their spouse was cheating on them or whether their boss was going to skip them over for another promotion. She frowned as she thought of Harry and bit her lip. Anything would be better than the veterans.

Maria, the office assistant, smiled at her cheerfully and handed her a cup of tea, which she took gratefully.

"Morning, Gin. Your eight o'clock is waiting for you and you have a write in at four," she said.

Ginny grabbed the small stack of papers waiting for her on the desk and sipped the tea. Perfect. "Sorry I'm late, Ri. Has he been here long?"

"No more than five minutes, but he was early."

Ginny nodded and walked into the room. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Robert, how did the meeting with the lawyers go?"

Robert McDawl glanced up at her from the black leather couch, and his mustache twitched spastically. "Surprisingly well, I think my wife and I have finally settled on terms."

Ginny frowned at him as she took her seat and set her cup of tea down on the table next to the armchair. "Didn't we decide that you were going to try to think of her as your ex-wife now?"

He smiled sheepishly from his own chair across from her and nodded before launching into a long tirade about how hard it was going to be to let go of her, but how he was glad that they were actually getting on.

Ginny let him talk, listening to the rise and fall of his voice, the rhythm of his speech, with an easy, approachable smile. She made a few notes, but didn't mark anything important. Robert was a strange sort of client. One of the few that didn't really want advice, but just a neutral observer to listen to them. For him, her job was to provide an outlet, somewhere to funnel all the desires and dreams, the frustrations and sympathies. She loved this sort of client.

"It's all a matter of linguistics, Robert," she said with an easy smile, "We give people meanings with words, assign them definitions in our minds. It's important you move away from defining her as your wife, so that you can begin seeing her in a different way."

He smiled in that sad sort of way and she listened as he spoke about letting go, of time transfixed, and of the past.

...

Ginny set down her paper with a sigh, spinning around in her desk chair to look out the window behind her. Like so many London views, it looked out onto a low set street, cobbles, stone, and black umbrellas filling the view. It was getting colder outside, numbingly so, but still the rain fell.

Maria knocked on the door, and Ginny spun around, tucking the paper out of sight. Ri was most certainly a Muggle, like almost all of her co-workers, and she hardly needed another patient who was convinced she was seeing things that weren't there. She pasted a smile on her face as Ri pushed the small teacart over to Ginny's desk.

"Something to keep us warm," Maria said with a smile. "The weather is getting worse."

Ginny nodded, taking the mug and wrapping cold fingers around it. It was almost too hot to hold; she blew across the surface, watching the steam rise slowly.

"Do you need anything before your next appointment? Perhaps some lunch?"

"Not today, I'm just not hungry. I'll probably duck out after the last appointment and eat then. Thank you though."

"Alright, then, here's your schedule for the rest of the week," Maria said with a smile as she placed the black book on the desk before cheerfully walking from the office.

With a sigh Ginny sat the mug down on the desk and pulled her copy of the Daily Prophet back out from under her desk.

A very angry Edward Caldwell scowled up from the front page next to the headline 'Minister of Magic has Little to Say About the Recent Azkaban Breakout'. Ginny couldn't hide the smirk as Caldwell swept the camera away from his face, knocking the cameraman over again and again. The article was short and boring and gave few details.

The post war ministry was laughably disorganized and had yet to even identify the escapee. She reopened the paper, skipping the multiple articles on the breakout and the ministry's improper response, and turned to the international affairs section.

It had been so long since she had been in the habit of reading wizarding papers that all the movement, the flashing headlines and moving pictures, gave her a headache. With a frustrated sigh, she closed the paper and set it back on her desk. Caldwell scowled at her some more before attacking the photographer again, and she finally tucked it back away.

It had been silly to even buy it; the affairs of the wizarding world now were so far beyond her grasp, she couldn't even begin to keep up. It felt like she was back in New York all over again, flipping through the editorials and trying to understand what the Muggles thought about politics and greener living and social reforms.

She didn't have the energy to try and adjust to another lifestyle again. She didn't even know if she had the energy to straddle two worlds like she had briefly before she left.

She sighed and grabbed her schedule, balancing it and her tea before turning back to the window.

But she almost dropped it all when she glanced down. Penciled in next to four o'clock was a name–D. M. Malfoy.

Her heart skidded to a stop, even while her mind raced like a car about to crash. She jumped up, her desk chair skidding backwards and tea spilling everywhere. With a frustrated curse, she set the mug down and reached for her box of tissues to clean herself.

She slowly picked up the schedule but the name was still there, loud and grating even in its lead silence. Shakily, she walked to the door. "Maria," she snapped, before pinching the bridge of her nose and taking a deep breath.

Maria looked up, "Are you okay, Gin?"

Ginny stared at the woman, "No."

Maria stood up and steered the two of them into her office. "What is it?"

"Cancel all my appointments after three."

"You only have one appointment after three."

"I know. Cancel it."

Maria looked like she wanted to say something, but Ginny shut her off with a glare. "I need a nap, will you wake me when Susan arrives?"

Maria nodded and Ginny slipped back into her office and sat down on the couch. Her heart was still spiking rapidly. Why was she so affected? Her eyes slid closed and she paused. But it only takes a second to slip. And then one more to fall. She had known the truth once — she had known with unfailing certainty what she wanted from him, for him. Now, though… now, how could she be sure of anything?

...

She can remember the last time she saw him, even though at the time, Ginny had no idea that that day, the day of the press conference, would be the last time.

He had been shaking hands with Harry. They hadn't been more than two meters in front of her, but neither noticed her as the cameras flashed. Draco had smiled grudgingly, a relieved and grateful smile, and Harry had grinned his trademark 'cameras are flashing' grin. She had stopped pushing through the crowd, so stunned was she by the image, and then she had been pushed aside.

When she saw Harry again, his hands were free. Draco had disappeared, whisked away by ministry bodyguards and, the next she heard, he was living in Geneva, working in the financial sector.

Less than twenty minutes before he had disappeared from her sight, she had stood next to him on the platform as Harry spoke on Draco's behalf, and she had met his eyes. She had felt the weight of his shame, of his guilt, but she hadn't understood it.

She still didn't.

...

Ginny sat down at the table across from Ron, watching as he bounced Emily on his knee. She was laughing happily and clapping her little hands, her blue eyes shining.

Ginny smiled. "She's so pretty."

Ron glanced up. "You look good, Gin, finally settling in?"

Ginny glanced over at him, before returning her eyes to the little girl. "Yeah, slowly but surely."

"We all missed you, you know?" Hermione said, walking in to the kitchen wearing her typical pantsuit under a simple set of robes. She had obviously come home from the library early to spend time with her family. Ginny felt a twinge of something like guilt, but Hermione's smile was too genuine, so Ginny shook it off.

Ginny smiled at her. "I'm happy to be back."

Ron grimaced as Emily fisted her hand in his hair. "You like the apartment, right? I helped pick it out."

"It's perfect," Ginny said with a smile, "Thanks so much."

Hermione pulled her daughter away from Ron gently and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll take her for her nap." Ginny watched her go in amazement; Hermione had become such a tender mother, so removed from the power struggle mother Ginny thought she would become.

Ron turned to her. "How are you, really? You've not been round for three weeks, and you look as though you've lost even more weight."

Ginny sighed, staring at the table. It was heavy and oak, much like most of the furniture in the house so clearly decorated by Hermione. "I'm doing okay, I said I was settling in slowly, and I meant it. Being back just brings so much to the surface."

Ron nodded. "I was surprised when Hermione said you'd agreed to return. I think most of us were suspecting you'd stay over there forever."

Ginny looked up at her obviously concerned brother who had grown up so much since she had left. "So did I."

"Why'd you come back then? Not that I'm not glad that you did, it's just…"

"I know."

The silence hung over them carefully, as if afraid to settle in and fully take over. Ginny glanced around the sunny kitchen, taking in the Robert Morris wallpaper and the fresh lines. It was a day meant for smiling; the sun was streaming through the window and the smell of tea filled the room.

"So, how's Quidditch?" she asked, finally clearing the oppressive air.

"I'm thinking of retiring," Ron said with a smile, "You know, staying home and being a house-husband."

"Really?" Ginny asked with a surprised smile, "Hermione must love that."

"Well, her new project is keeping her at the office all hours and Emily deserves better than a nanny. Plus, I don't like the travel time. Too many hotels and too much sleep deprivation."

Ginny smiled at him, feeling a bit cheated that she had missed the past two years. "You're a good father, Ron."

"You sound surprised," he said with a grin.

"No, not surprised, pleased. I'm proud of you."

His grin widened. "Everyone has to grow up eventually."

Ginny glanced out the window at the back yard, the colors of fall burning in the sunlight. Her smile swept off her face and she sighed. "War does that."

Ron laughed loudly at that, jarring her, and she whipped her head around to stare at him.

"War does nothing more than put you a little bit closer to death, Gin," he said, his tone conveying seriousness, even as he smirked at her. "You have to stop thinking like that. War didn't make me grow up, if anything, it just made me put it off. Jumping around, playing Quidditch, ignoring the issues with you, with Harry, with Herms. It's not war; it's the realization that comes with knowing what's important. Stop thinking that war kills off who we are. I know that Harry… well, I know the two years you spent here weren't easy, but it doesn't have to be haunting. People move on, we grow, we change, and–hey, hey, it's okay–"

Ginny didn't even notice her tears until Ron was there, brushing them away, holding her face to his chest.

"Gin," he whispered, "Don't cry. You of all people have to know that time keeps going, it doesn't wait, it doesn't stop. But that's no reason to hate it. You have to move forward with it."

She sobbed once into his chest, falling into that warm embrace, and suddenly, it all rushed back. How she had missed him. Her arms tightened, and so did his, and they just sat there.

"I've missed you," she said, pulling away to wipe her face.

He smiled at her. "I've missed you too. You okay?"

She nodded, sliding away even farther. "You've gotten wiser, too, that's weird."

He laughed again, a freeing movement, and she laughed with him. The weight on her shoulders eased a bit.

"It must be hard being back," he said.

She smiled. "Yeah. But I think I'll be okay."

He nodded, sliding back across to his original seat. They fell into a comfortable silence and Ginny felt herself smiling as she stared out the window.

Hermione came back into the room with a sigh and sat down. "She get's more and more rambunctious every day."

Ginny looked over at her sister-in-law and smiled. "Too much Weasley in her, I take it?"

Ron chuckled. "Not possible."

Hermione smiled at him in a way Ginny envied and then turned to her. "How's work been?"

Ginny's heart sped up a little bit at the question, but she forced herself to keep a straight face. "Really well, actually, I like all of my clients, and even though we're just getting to know one another, I feel like it's going to be a very refreshing next few months." She felt a little overenthusiastic, but Hermione smiled.

"That's good. I guess it's nice, all those posh offices and posh clients."

Ginny smirked. "You're calling other people posh?"

"Hey!" Hermione snapped with a laugh. "I am not posh."

"Are you kidding?" Ron said incredulously, "I remember the first day I met you. '_By the way, you have dirt on your nose_'."

His imitation of Hermione never failed to make Ginny laugh, and soon they were all shaking with giggles as they swapped stories of before.

Suddenly, for no reason whatsoever, Ginny spit out what had been bothering her. "Draco Malfoy made an appointment to see me today."

"When?" Ron said, his brow creasing, the smile hovering on his lips, lost.

Ginny glanced at the clock behind Ron. "Technically, his appointment is in twenty minutes. I didn't know what to do, so I skipped it."

Ron stared at her. "That's not like you."

She cynically laughed to herself — avoidance was her specialty. "I know," she said with a frustrated sigh, "But what am I supposed to say to him?"

Ron peered at her curiously. "I don't know, but it'd be interesting to find out what his problems are."

"What do you mean by that?"

Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione interrupted, "I wonder why Draco wanted to see you."

"Draco?" Ginny responded, the name seeming foreign on her lips and Hermione's.

Hermione waved her hand dismissively. "He's funding my latest project and insists I call him that."

Ginny gaped at Hermione. "I had no idea he was back in Britain until today."

"He moved back about a year and a half ago," Hermione said, standing to get the kettle and our more tea. "He does a lot of philanthropic work, mostly for war victims and the like. I'm surprised he would seek out a psychiatrist, especially you."

Ginny stared at Hermione, waiting for the witch to give something away, but there was nothing but simple curiosity on her face.

"Everyone has problems," Ginny said carefully.

"Yeah, but," Ron interjected, "He's like the most self-possessed guy I know."

"I think a more important issue is," Hermione said, sitting down, "Why did you skip it?"

Ginny frowned. "I don't know how to face him."

Hermione sighed. "He deserves a second chance, Gin. He's not the same boy anymore. None of us are the same anymore."

"I just," Ginny said, thankful they had misinterpreted her again, "I haven't seen him since the press conference."

Hermione smiled at her reassuringly. "Well, you should meet with him. He's not so bad."

Ginny stared at their faces, honestly confused. What the hell had she come back to?

...

_Ginny had known the truth when she had opened her eyes in the Hospital Wing. The room was dark, it was night, and all the curtains around the beds were pulled. But the flimsy pieces of fabric didn't stop the wailing, the crying, the people begging for their mothers. _

_Her first thought was of Draco. Was he here? _

_But then she glanced around and her heart stopped. She was in Charlie's bed. In the bed where he had been._

_Where was Charlie? A sob broke through her mouth, as the night rushed back to her. When had they found her?_

_Was it still raining? Oh Merlin, there had been so much rain._

_Pomfry bustled in then with a smile, "Good, you're awake. I've been hoping to talk to you."_

"_What happened?" Ginny asked, "What's wrong with me? Why am I here? Where's Draco?"_

Are you ready?_ a voice asked. She whipped around, but there was no one there._

"_Draco Malfoy?" Pomfry asked nonplussed, sitting next to her by the bed. "Well, I supposed he's in Azkaban by now, they took him away yesterday, once they decided he had no serious injuries. You've been out for a long time." _

_Ginny stared at the elderly woman, her world slightly rocking. She felt sick. Hadn't she saved him? Her palm ached and her stomach rocked. Pomfry made her noise, that slight tut-tutting she did, and held out a tissue. Ginny stared at it confusedly, when she realized that she was crying. _

"_You were just exhausted dear. Your brother, Ron–" _

_Ginny felt her heart jump and stop before a shaky restart. "Ron's okay?" she interrupted. _

"_Yes, he carried you in, said you were passed out on the stairs."_

_The stairs. The rain. Draco in handcuffs, she remembered. The rain._

_Ginny's eyes blurred. "And?"_

"_Well, you've been asleep ever since. We treated the burn on your palm, but there's nothing else wrong with you."_

"_No, my family, I meant my family, are they okay?" _

_The skin around Pomfry's eyes tightened. "Everyone else is fine. Except–"_

"_Charlie."_

"_Yes."_

_Ginny sighed into the tissue, the tears slowly stopping. "Good. I mean, well, you know."_

"_And Harry?"_

"_Perfect bill of health! He's always been such a fast healer. I believe he's staying at the Burrow with most of your family."_

"_And Voldemort's dead?" _

_Pomfry nodded. "Gone for good."_

"_Who else?"_

_Pomfry looked incredibly saddened. "A great many. It's going to be a difficult time. But, I have good news."_

_Ginny's eyes shot up. "Yes?"_

"_School's been cancelled! No exams."_

_Ginny blinked. "Oh."_

_An awkward silence hung in the air, and Ginny supposed that Pomfry just had no idea how to deal with this. She was a school nurse, after all, not a grief councilor. _

"_Well, your brothers Fred and George are around, they want to see you. George will probably be on crutches for a few weeks, but despite a rather nasty curse, his leg will heal. Would you like for me to bring them in in a few minutes?"_

_Ginny just nodded. She felt like her lungs were shrinking, her heart was shrinking. Where was her blood? Where was the oxygen? She gasped for breath, struggling, as Pomfry just continued talking. What else had happened? Who else was injured? Who else was dead?_

"_Of course, m'dear, you did excellently that night, and I'd like to keep you on this summer for special mediwitch training. We can get you a flat in Hogsmeade; there's been a huge amount of money given to the school in the past couple of days, and that way you could stay close by and…" _

_Ginny trained her out, her breathing slowly recovering. Her brothers were all fine except… a sob gathered in her chest. She swallowed it. _

_Pomfry continued on and Ginny nodded mutely along with it. Why did she feel so old?_

_When the elderly woman finally bustled out, Ginny closed her eyes, the welcome sleep just not coming. Then the curtains were pulled open noisily. _

"_Gin-Gins!" her two favorite brothers chorused. She felt the guilt seize her then; if Charlie had been her favorite, could she have saved him?_

_The sobs broke through and she pulled her knees up to her chest, fisting her hands in the sheets. _

"_Wow, George," George said, "I don't think that's ever happened before."_

"_Maybe she's just really, really happy to see us, Fred," Fred responded, though the laughter slowly left his voice. _

"_Ginny?" One of them asked tentatively. _

_She looked up, staring into four blue eyes, as she forced a strange composure upon herself. "I need a cigarette." _

_The smiles reappeared. "I think that–"_

"–_Just this once–"_

"–_That can be arranged."_

_She smiled at them and pulled herself out of bed. They hugged her in turn, and for a moment, just a moment, she let all the guilt slide away. _

_But as she dragged on her cigarette, her twin brothers watching curiously, it felt worse. It just felt like hell. There was a moment, when she had woken up, staring at the ceiling of the Hospital Wing, when she had known the truth. When she had known, with her earliest thought, that he would be there with her forever. Of course smoking without him was not the same. _

_Fred's hand rested on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"_

"_Yeah," she said, stubbing out the cigarette on the wall behind her. "I was just looking for something that's not here."_

_George put his arm around her. "It'll be okay, Gin. We just have to try to pick up the pieces now, try to move forward. It's over."_

It's over. You're okay. You're okay, okay?

_They climbed the stairs to go back inside, George struggling with his crutches, and Ginny paused about halfway up. "I'm okay," she said softly. The wind rustled around her and she smiled. _

_But damn it, her palm still burned like hell._

...

"So, Draco's back," Ginny said as casually to Pansy as she could.

"Huh?" Pansy replied, taking the bottle of wine from Ginny's outstretched hands.

Ginny cursed herself; perhaps right after Pansy walked in the door was the wrong time to bring him up.

"Did you see him?" Pansy asked.

Ginny stared at the wall. "Not exactly. He made an appointment to see me, but I cancelled it."

Pansy stared at her. "He made an appointment? With a psychiatrist? With you? Draco Malfoy?"

Ginny nodded. "Yeah."

Pansy opened her mouth to say something when Neville came out of the kitchen with a smile. "Hey, Gin."

"Are you sure it was Draco Malfoy?" Pansy asked, still incredulous, "Pointy git with too much ego?"

"Yeah."

"And you missed out on the chance to mock him endlessly?"

"I'm not allowed to mock my patients, Pans."

Pansy finally moved aside to let her fully enter the apartment, before she closed the door. "Yeah, but, it's Draco."

"What's he been up to, anyway?" Ginny asked, trying not to sound too curious.

"Eh, the normal for him," Pansy said, a strange fondness in her voice, "Spending thousands, making millions, smiling charmingly. You know how people like that are."

Ginny shot her a look. "People like you?"

Neville chuckled, "Nah, Pansy makes thousands, spends millions."

They all laughed, and Pansy changed the subject but not before she shot Ginny a very curious look.

...

Ginny sat down in a café across from the office after work the next week, sinking into her booth slowly. It had been a long day, with appointments at eight, nine-thirty, eleven, twelve-thirty, two, and four. She was dead tired and starving.

A D. M. Malfoy had called again, a buzzing in her ear, and she had told Maria just to book him with one of her partners if he needed to see someone that badly. She had told Ginny later exactly how irritated Mr. Malfoy had been with that suggestion.

Ginny cringed, wondering why exactly it was that she dreaded seeing him again. It would be nice to…

She sighed. Who was she kidding? Certainly not herself. She took a sip of the coffee set in front of her and thought back. She wondered if he still blamed her for being sent to Azkaban. He may have only spent two weeks there, but two weeks was certainly long enough.

She remembered the look on his face as they had slapped on the magical cuffs, binding him. It had been so remorseful, as if he wanted to take it all back — redo his entire life just to avoid this moment.

Her eyes slid closed tiredly, and she vaguely wondered if they would kick her out for just falling asleep right here. She shook herself and instead pulled out her journal. Her ballpoint tapped on the page as she tried to compose her thoughts. By the time she started writing, she was hardly aware of the words.

_Love isn't, in any sense, a rational emotion. It is creative and destructive, an uplifting and degrading paradoxical combination of all opposites. It is everything that I want and don't want. It cripples humans while giving them strength. It brings out the best and worst of us, of me. _

_There is no way to define 'love', not that I would try — it is but an emotion of the highest realm that is entirely abstract. There are too many people that love in too many different types of ways to give justice to the term with a definition. There is, of course, love in friendship, which is beautiful. There is unconditional familial love which is presumed by most to exist. And then there is romantic love, a totally different ballgame. All of these are beautiful — when shared. _

_The problem with all of this is clear. A rational mind, relying on reason and logic — like the one I would try to write with — would see no need for the problems of love and discard it fully, for it is not concerned with any of those. But, it is my strongest belief, my opinion nearest to truth, that humans cannot live well without love. _

_Why is this? I have no bloody idea. I wish I did. It would solve so many problems, though most likely leave me jobless. Human nature is a complex, abstract myriad of things: desire for natural order, fulfillment of self, provisions for dependents, etc. Most strongly — human nature is animal. It is clear about humans that we want to survive. Also, I would assume, that we want to survive well. Money, food, shelter, happiness are all ingredients to this. _

_Love, then, as defined by societal values, should provide the last. But this is not necessarily true. _

_Love has called forth, since chivalric times, a great image of passion, betterment, joy, and fulfillment. Somehow love is supposed to make life more bearable._

_But does it?_

Ginny stared uncertainly at the words written on the page and set her pen down with a suspicious look. Maybe it knew her better than she knew herself.

She snapped the journal closed, staring into her now empty coffee mug. How easy it would be to pretend that she didn't understand exactly what she had written and why.

But then again, the dreams, and the memories, and the running away, it all led back to one conclusion. A rational mind…

She cursed herself quietly. "Let go. Just let go."

Her mobile began to vibrate against her leg, and she pulled it out curiously. Almost no one she knew here had a mobile phone. The number was one she didn't recognize, so she opened it slowly.

"Hello?"

"Ginevra," a voice said patiently, "You've been avoiding me."

"Draco?" she asked shakily, the world shifting in front of her. He sounded so much older, so much softer, so much angrier.

"Well, at least you remember me."

She snorted, raising her hand to cover her mouth. Her fingers wouldn't hold still. "How could I not?"

There was a short silence on the other end. "Why haven't you agreed to see me?"

Ginny stood up mechanically, gathering her things. "Why have you been trying to see me?"

"When are you going to forgive me?"

She took a breath and closed her eyes — green light and the rain. "What do I need to forgive you for?"

He sighed, but she hung up the phone before he could continue and walked out of the shop, her heart spiking uncontrollably. She drew a cigarette with shaky fingers, lit it, and breathed in. Once, twice, the emotions threatening to spill out. She opened the phone. Her finger hovered over the call button, but wouldn't press it.

She was being irrational. She hated that about him.

Forgiveness? That's what he was looking for? Of all things…

Grinding the cigarette against the top of a bin, she hailed a taxi and climbed in. It took her straight home, and once she was inside, she laid back on the couch and sighed.

...

"_I've come to see the prisoner Draco Malfoy," Ginny said to the guard. _

_He stared at her. "Awfully strange to get visitors."_

"_I have clearance," she responded, showing him her badge. _

_He nodded. "Name?"_

"_Ginevra Weasley."_

_He shuffled off towards the cellblock, passing on a message to a man on the other side of the bars. The man turned a bit green, and opened the door behind him. Ginny felt the unsettling cold seeping through the doors. Dementors. _

_After a wait that seemed unbearably long, the second man shuffled back into the room and spoke to the first. _

_He came over to her a moment later. "Sorry, mam, he says he doesn't want to see you."_

_Ginny stared at the guards for a moment. "What?"_

_He shrugged at her, and Ginny sighed. She could force her presence on him; he was a prisoner, after all. He didn't get to choose. "Thanks for your time."_

_The boat ride back to shore was too cold, and Ginny shook through it, watching the coast slowly appear in the distance, cold and empty, covered in ice. _

...

It was cold in her apartment as well, and she trembled as she thought about that day. She hadn't exactly been sure of what to expect, but she hadn't even considered that he would turn her away.

She pulled out her wand and lit the fire. Her phone vibrated again, and she pulled it out, staring at the number. It was Pansy.

"Hello?"

"You coming out tonight?"

Ginny gave her ceiling an eye roll. "Not tonight, I'm sleepy and worn out."

"Hmm," Pansy murmured. "Well, we'll miss you."

"Pans–" Ginny began, before cutting herself off.

"What?"

"Nah, never mind. Call me Saturday, and we'll see."

Pansy said a quick good-bye and Ginny clicked her phone shut. For a moment, just for a moment, she had hoped it was Draco calling.

Even if she hadn't planned on answering.

...

"So Draco made an appointment to see you," Pansy asked, walking in. Ginny pulled the towel from her hair, as she stared in surprise at her friend.

"Weren't you going out tonight?"

"I was," Pansy responded, disgruntled, before she shoved the bottle of wine into Ginny's chest as she stepped by her into the apartment. "Oh, I like the furniture, much better."

Ginny just stared as Pansy shucked off her trendy Muggle jacket, before continuing her original line of thought, "And you skipped it. Which I totally don't get. Not to mention the weird looks you were giving me during dinner, which I know had nothing to do with my choice of boyfriend …this time, and the fact that you've been holed up since. So — what's going on? And why don't you want to see Draco?"

Ginny turned from the door after closing it to stare at Pansy open-mouthed.

"What?" she asked, shrugging irritably, "Pour the wine."

Ginny moved to the kitchen, dropping her towel on the back of a chair and leaving her hair down and wet.

"Actually," Pansy called, "Better make it something stronger. If nothing else, I know when you need a drink."

Ginny found herself smiling as she pulled a bottle of Bourbon from the top of her refrigerator. "Did you come all the way here just to ask me about Draco? You could have done that over the phone."

"Yeah," Pansy said, walking into the kitchen, "But then I wouldn't have been able to tell if you were lying."

"Why would I lie?" she asked innocently as she poured the amber liquid over ice. Ginny took hers straight but added a bit of soda water to Pansy's.

"So spill, why are you so concerned with Draco?"

"I'm not."

Pansy raised her eyebrows and smirked slowly. "Yeah. Because that was convincing."

Ginny frowned at herself and then poured her drink down her throat. She took the bottle and squeezed past Pansy to walk into the other room. "I'm not."

"You are. And you're trying to hide it, which is not how this works, so just tell me or you're going to wake up with one hell of a hangover tomorrow."

Ginny sighed and sank back into her couch. "Fine." She searched her mind for a reasonable explanation. "I never, well, at the end, I didn't have the same opinion of him that everyone else did."

Pansy looked at her expectantly, taking a seat on the other end of the couch and kicking off her shoes. She poured them both another drink. Ginny took it; the whiskey burned her throat as Pansy's eyes burned her skin.

"And yet, I'm the one who is responsible for him going to Azkaban."

Ginny glanced over, slightly ashamed, meeting Pansy's unimpressed eyes. "From what I hear," Pansy said shortly, "you're also the person responsible for getting him out."

"But, the whole–"

"Ginny," Pansy said sharply. "Draco cursed a lot of people that night. He also had a mark on his arm that said more than any other evidence would have. He was going to Azkaban no matter what. It's hardly your fault."

"I know, I just," Ginny sighed, taking another long sip of her drink, "Felt guilty."

"And you didn't want to see him?"

"Exactly," she said, nodding. _Liar_ said the voice in her head.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

Ginny was silent for a long time, staring at the wall as her mind stayed mostly empty.

"Pansy, why did you flee to France?"

Ginny caught the fleeting sadness on Pansy's face before it could fade and had to bite back her own guilt. "Because I was in love, and everything just got too… intense."

"Yeah. But why didn't you take Draco with you?"

Pansy snorted. "Are you serious?" Ginny turned to look at her. "Come on, Gin, surely you remember? It was not the time to trust people unless you had to."

"But he was your friend, right?"

Pansy shook her head and sighed wearily. "Friendship comes second to …certain things."

They fell into an uneasy silence, and Ginny sighed, pouring them more. The whiskey splashed against the melting ice cubes and they clinked against the glass. It was darker in the flat than it should have been and Ginny nursed her glass between two hands as she stared at the dying fire.

"Why all this talk about the past anyway?" Pansy asked suddenly. "It's pointless. The war's long over."

"But," Ginny said uncertainly.

"No," Pansy said harshly. "It's over, Gin. I don't know why you came back, but if you were expecting to find the rest of us still grieving, you were wrong. You can't do this. We're not nineteen any more living like every day is our last tomorrow. You have to wake up now."

Ginny sighed– "I know" –and Pansy's face softened.

"I'm sorry, it's just…"

"Hard to let go of," Ginny finished.

"And even harder to pretend that you have." Pansy raised her glass with a sardonic twist of her lips, and Ginny stretched over to clink hers against it.

"It's not really over, you know that right?" Ginny said. Pansy gave her no response. "Don't you still walk around with your hand on your wand? Bury yourself beneath–"

"Stop, Ginny," Pansy said cutting her off with a lazy wave of her hand. "In that sense, it will never be over. But that's not what I'm worried about. It's the way that you're haunted by it."

"We're all haunted by it."

"Yeah, but…" Pansy trailed off with a shrug. "There are good things too. Things beyond that."

"I know," Ginny said, "It's just weird being back."

Pansy chuckled drily. "I can imagine."

"I'm going to go visit the wall next week."

Pansy pursed her lips. "Don't ask me to come."

"I wasn't going to."

"We can get pissed when you get back though, be nineteen for a little longer."

"If you like," Ginny said with false indifference.

Pansy smirked at her, breaking it–whatever tension was hanging over them. "You got any movies to watch on that strange Muggle contraption?"

"Yeah," Ginny said with a smile, standing to go pick one out. She was just bending over her small collection when Pansy's strangely small voice stilled her hands.

"I know I contradict myself, Gin, but I am perfectly aware of how memory works. Just because we're here now, doesn't mean we aren't there too. The past is what made us, just don't let it get in the way of the present."

Ginny smiled bitterly at her hands before turning. "How about iThe Princess Bride/i?"

"Does anyone die?" she asked softly.

"Only the bad guys," Ginny responded with a smirk.

Pansy smiled back. "The way it should be. How about we order in as well?"

Ginny nodded, putting the DVD into the player, before standing. "Sounds perfect."

...

_Harry lifted his head from his hands and stared at her. His eyes were empty, like he was having trouble focusing on her. The flat felt stiflingly small, made worse by the mixed sounds of joy and sorrow coming from the streets and the lingering smell of scotch. _

"_Ginny," he began, his voice a dry croak, "I just don't know what you want me to do."_

_She walked stiffly over to the window and stared down at the celebration. A parade, another one, was passing beneath her, filling the streets of Hogsmeade with drunkards lamenting and rejoicing. She pulled the curtains shut._

"_I want you to get him out."_

"_Out of Azkaban?" he scoffed, resting his head in his hands again as he sunk even further into her couch. She had only had the couch for three days, had only lived here for a week, but already there was a Harry shaped dent. "What sort of pull do you think I have?"_

"_You're Harry fucking Potter!" she snapped, a little too loudly, and he looked up at her in shock and anger. _

"_Yes," he said drily. He reached for the glass tumbler on the table in front of him and Ginny's eyes welled with tears. How was this fair? It was supposed to be over._

"_And thirteen days ago you killed the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Almighty Prince of Evil, Voldemort–" Harry shuddered at the name "–All you have to do is speak on his behalf."_

"_I don't want to," he said, knocking back the rest of the liquid with a frown. _

_Ginny glared at him. "He saved my life." A slight lie, but a sacrifice that was worth it._

_Harry looked up at her. She could hear the insolent 'So?' forming on his lips, but it never came. Instead, he hung his head._

"_He was a Death Eater, Gin. He wears the mark; he has for a long time."_

_Ginny snorted and returned to her earlier pacing. "He got it in December Harry, that's six months ago."_

_It was almost June, she realized with a start. Almost her birthday. She would be seventeen. Seventeen, legal, living by herself. She wanted to feel happy with her independence, but all she felt was the smothering oppression that came with expectation._

_She should be taking finals soon, but instead, she was here, let out into the celebrations that were filling every wizarding town across Europe. When had she grown up? When was she supposed to?_

"_It doesn't matter," Harry protested. "I have other things to do — the Hogwarts rebuilding, find a job, get the world squared away."_

_She stopped her trek in circles on the carpet and stared at him. Broken. Which one? _

"_Harry," she began softly; she knew he looked up, but her eyes were closed. "You will do this. You will sober up and tomorrow you will go speak to the minister. You will smile for the cameras and you will get Draco Malfoy out of prison. You will."_

"_Or?" he asked, deliberately pushing her._

"_Or, Merlin help me, I will make you regret it," she said, something fundamental within her snapping in two. _

_She still hadn't turned to look at him, but she felt him shrink away from her. _

_When she glanced over at him finally, he was looking at her with more clarity than she had seen since he had arrived. "You're in love with him."_

_Her eyes widened, irritation, resentment, and incredulity building behind the floodgates of her tiring patience. "No, Harry. I'm not."_

_That was not worth the sacrifice. _

_Harry stared at her for a long second before returning his face to his hands. "It can wait till tomorrow, though, right?"_

_She sighed, her breath flooding in her lungs with all the relief she hadn't let herself feel since she had seen Draco at the bottom of the steps. "Yeah, Harry. It can wait till tomorrow."_

_She crossed over to the couch and sank down next to him, wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "Thank you."_

_She kissed his temple and his head fell into her lap. She let him stay that way until she felt his breathing even, then she laid him out on the couch and went to take a shower. Tomorrow. _

...

Ginny awoke the sound of scratching at the door. She grabbed her wand and checked the wards, gently shifting out from under Pansy who had passed out on her lap. The empty bottle of bourbon effortlessly explained her headache but not why there was a tear in the wards.

She fixed it quickly, her heart hammering in her chest as she stared in terror at the door. The scratching ceased, and Ginny glanced at her wand. It was trembling. She was trembling. There was the sound of movement outside, and she focused on the door once more.

She was getting used to the grief; it came in waves. But the fear... It had shocked her; she thought she was still buried under blankets of it. Now, though, she felt her body spark back to life. Felt the fire and the fight rise within her again. When she glanced back at her hand, it was steady. She gripped her wand tightly and focused on the door.

And then, suddenly, all was silent. She let out a sigh and relaxed. There was nothing to be afraid of. It was just a dog. It was just London. It was all over.

She sank back down on the couch and rested her head on the back, staring at the ceiling. Her heart was hammering with adrenaline and her head was pounding with dehydration. She pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled into the silence.

_Magdalene, eh?_ she asked herself, remembering her dream. What was she supposed to do other than worry, than believe? _Pray for me_, a voice whispered in her ear, and she closed her eyes. He would never ask her that.

But she had prayed then for him anyway; she still did.

* * *

Thanks for reading! xxx


	3. Chapter 3: The Rain

Chapter 3: The Rain

* * *

_Everything gets smaller now the further that I go  
__Towards the mouth and the reunion of the Known and the Unknown  
__Consider yourself lucky if you think of it as home  
__You can move mountains with your misery if you don't  
__If you don't  
__It comes to me in fragments, even those still split in two  
__Under the leaves of that old Lime Tree I stood examining the fruit  
__Some were ripe and some were rotten, I felt nauseous with the truth  
__There will never be a time more opportune  
__So I just won't be late  
__The window closes, shock rolls over in a tidal wave  
__And all the color drains out of the frame  
__So pleased with a daydream that now living is no good  
__I took off my shoes and walked into the woods  
__I felt lost and found with every step I took.  
_ -Bright Eyes, 'Lime Tree'

* * *

She left the next week for Scotland, just as she had planned. She didn't tell anyone she was going though, just got onto a train in the beginning of November, planning to stare out the window into the fog for seven hours.

She hadn't been back to Kings Cross since she boarded the train there for her fifth year. Platform 9¾ had been destroyed in an attack early on and hadn't been repaired until after the war. But by her seventh year she had already been living in an apartment in Hogsmeade, working on the weekends.

She was startled, as she always seemed to be these days, by the fact that very little had changed. Even the bright red Hogwarts Express was still the same. Everything had been restored to how it looked before. Well, almost everything. She touched the side of the train, breathing in slowly, willing her mind not to go back to the beginning.

But it was pointless anyway. She was already there.

A lifetime ago she had gotten onto this train and when she had gotten off, everything began. That was the real turning point in her life. Her fifth year. She knew exactly why.

The whistle called her out of her stupor and she shook herself, climbing onto the almost empty train that ran daily between the two stations. She found a compartment towards the front and sat facing the back. It was slow waiting, but then the train began to move, and she settled into her seat, pulling out her journal and placing her pen to the page.

She paused, glancing out the window as the train emerged into a foggy London, and then began to write.

_Do you ever look back on life and try to figure out how you got to where you are? Where did the cycle, or the path, start? Where did a certain series of events have their beginnings? _

_Like, how did I end up here, sitting so still and quiet looking back because I can't look forward yet? _

_Sometimes I like to think that it started in McGonagall's classroom in fifth year, when the two of us had a staring contest across her desk. She was determined not to tell me what I wanted to know and I was determined not to let it drop. Finally, she broke the silence with a totally unrelated question, "What is it that you want to do with your life, Miss Weasley?" _

_I had shrugged and after a moment replied, "I like the idea of psychiatry." _

_McGonagall had scoffed at me again. "A Muggle profession?" She shook her head. "Mediwitch, perhaps. You will need NEWTS in Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, and Herbology. I would also suggest, because of your affinity for them, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies. And I'll have a word with Madam Pomphry about an private study." _

_My head was swimming. "Fine." _

_Or was it standing in a forgotten courtyard, no bigger than a dormitory, next to a person who was too confused to be a man and too aged to be a boy as he lit my cigarette while we talked about death? Or was it later — standing on the stairs and looking murder in the face before I tossed myself towards an inevitable truth? Or was it earlier — finding solace in a book that showered me with love and attention that I still miss shamefully with a passion that I wish to forget? Or does none of that have anything to do with this? _

_But no matter how much I wander through the past in relation to the present, I already know that it starts when you're born and ends when you die and everything in between is just being lost amongst a myriad of cross streets, stoplights, and keep left signs and everyone you see speaks the wrong language. _

How did I get here?

...

When Charlie had appeared before her, pulled off the battlefield just a few hours after it all had started, she had stared, shocked and terrified by the sight. He was mangled, bleeding, and only partially alert.

His whisper was throaty. "Gin?"

His red hair was streaked with dirt and blood, his arms were covered in lacerations, his right leg was hardly still attached to his body. A quick but sloppy cauterization had removed the opportunity to reattach the leg yet hadn't staunched the bleeding. His sternum was crushed. Ginny had absolutely no idea what to do, and for a moment she just stared.

And then, apparently, the temporary pain relief spells wore off, and Charlie's eyes rolled back into his head, his body seizing as he was wracked with immense pain. Ginny started sobbing and shaking and she cried out for help, grasping the bars on the side of the bed and staring helplessly at his form, her wand hovering over his body, with no idea of what to do. There were tears falling down her face as she cried out hysterically for assistance.

She cast blood regeneration charms and poured multiple potions down his throat, but Ginny couldn't fix him, she couldn't heal the bones, she couldn't replace the tendons, she couldn't regenerate the tissue, she couldn't re-inflate his lungs. She couldn't stop the bleeding.

And so, during the longest five minutes of her life, she was forced to watch her brother's life slide from him as she desperately tried to hold onto something. And when there was nothing left of him to save, she collapsed onto the floor, wailing. She sobbed heartily for minutes, her tears sliding onto the cold floor and her chest aching from the ferocity.

No one came to her assistance, no one even looked up. They were all too busy with everything else. And people were dying all over the wing; Charlie had been a goner the moment he had been levitated through the doors.

And so she had scolded herself, standing slowly and regaining her control. She bitterly regretted the waste of her energy and precious supplies. She had wasted the chance to say goodbye on a futile attempt to save him.

Her entire body seized up, and she gasped for breath, turning to the bin beside her and vomiting into it.

And then it had been over. The tears had been wiped away, she had marked the body to be moved, and then she had started on the next person.

But there had been nothing she could do to stop the voice in the back of her head that whispered, "Nothing's fair in love and war."

Ginny whispered it again, staring out onto the quickly passing landscape before she pushed Charlie's death from her. That memory of it may have been her strongest of him, but he had also been the one to teach her how to play seeker, to convince her brothers to let her play tag with them, to reprimand the twins when they were being a bit too rough. She just couldn't think of him, not without crying.

So she sank back into her seat and closed her eyes, the sun was streaming in the window of her compartment now, and she did not want to look at it. After Charlie had died, she had gone running, she had left the hospital and had gone in search. She told herself that she wanted to help, but in reality she had wanted to know that everyone else was okay.

She had gone looking for him. She always did, somehow, end up searching for him. But that was the end. She didn't need ends. Where had it started?

...

_Ginny hesitated in the doorway to the courtyard. For the past five years, this tiny, forgotten haven had been her sole sanctuary, she had been able to come here and escape, whenever she needed solitude. It was the only good thing Tom had ever given to her. She had never seen anyone here or anywhere near it. But this was the second time this week that it hadn't been empty when she entered it. _

_He was here again._

_She entered the space, no larger than her dormitory, and stepped over an old and faded bramble. Dead ivy covered the crumbling walls and the long ignored thistle plants covered every space. He was sitting facing the entry, his cloak spread out on the ground beneath him. And, though she could feel his eyes on her, she turned left and sat down on the sole bench. _

_With her hands on her knees, Ginny closed her eyes and took an unsteady breath in. And out, she reminded herself a moment later. The weight gradually slid off her shoulders as she took in the silence. The only discomfort was that she could feel his eyes boring into her. _

_Slowly, she pulled out a cigarette, the shake in her hands fading. Afraid to use his lighter in front of him, she pulled out a book of matches. They didn't go out that day, and she inhaled the first drag as a quiet benediction. She always felt slightly guilty when she smoked; she was perfectly aware of the health issues, and even more aware of what her parents would say. Only Fred and George knew, well, and Bill, but he didn't count because he smoked with her. And though the twins had admonished her in a way that was very nearly serious, she didn't want to stop. She relied on her vice, though in a much more psychological way than a physical one. _

_It's war, though, she rationalized, everyone needs escape. Everyone had weaknesses. _

_That day had been especially long, dragging out before her in an endless succession of classes and ignorant conversations. All while the gaps at the hall tables were growing larger; children were being pulled out of school by paranoid parents or… worse. _

_Not to mention the nerve-wracking way that Ron, Hermione, and Harry kept disappearing to talk at odd moments. They were planning to leave; she had heard them talking about next year. And Ginny was scared. She'd be lying if she tried to deny that she felt safer with them nearby. _

_So deep in thought and worry was she, that she didn't notice Draco's movements until he sat down beside her. "You're shaking," he whispered next to her._

_For a moment, Ginny tried to hate him. She wanted to hate him, to yell at him, to accuse him of terrible things, and place the blame on him, but she found that she just didn't have the energy. Instead, she sighed with her whole body and then leaned her head against his shoulder and took another drag from her cigarette. _

_He didn't move away from the touch, but he didn't adjust either, leaving them both in the awkward position while Ginny slowly brought herself back under control. _

_After a few minutes, she sat back up, stubbing out her finished cigarette. "How did you find this place?" she asked._

_She saw him shrug from the corner of her eye, his form slouched uncouthly over his knees as he stared at the far wall intently. "I followed you a few weeks ago."_

_She was silent at that, staring at the same point on the wall. She was praying that something would open up from it, that the stones would fall away and reveal some sort of answer. "Why do you come here?"_

_He just shrugged again. "Same reason as you, I'd suppose."_

_She nodded, rolling her shoulders and stretching, but she doubted him. She wondered if for some reason he came because he knew she would, and she wondered why that didn't bother her. A glance at her watch told her that there was twenty minutes to dinner, and so she lit another cigarette. She rode her nicotine high shamelessly, letting the imposed calm flow through her limbs, making all of her feel heavy. _

"_Are you a Death Eater?" she asked, realizing that it wasn't what she meant to say, but glad she had anyway. _

_There was no change in his position, except for the slow shift of his eyes toward her. "I think a more important question would be, 'What if I was?'"_

_Ginny took that as the most of an admission she would ever get, and for some reason, it didn't make her uneasy at all. She just shrugged, imitating his indifference well. _

_And then she took a few more drags and dropped the cigarette. She could have banished the butts away, she realized, but she sort of like the way that they had begun to clutter the small courtyard, her white filters, and the few of Draco's that were the standard brown. She nodded at him, murmuring "Draco" and started to walk away._

_He grabbed her wrist suddenly, and she was forced to turn back around. She stared at the long white fingers that held her, a strange peace settling over her despite the harshness of the grip._

"_I'm sorry," he said, and she looked up, surprised. His face was utterly impassive, but there was something about the grip on her wrist, almost desperate and slightly sweaty. _

_She stared at him, shaking off the lethargy, the strange mists, which threatened to overtake her. Ginny stared for a long time and finally his grip loosened and he let go of her. _

_She smiled softly at him, full of sympathy and something she couldn't really understand, perhaps it was forgiveness, but she didn't think so. "Don't apologize to me," she said, "Apologize to yourself."_

_He frowned up at her._

_Then, totally intuitively, she leaned over and kissed his forehead, resting her hand on the top of his head. She wanted to say something to him, something stupid or trite like 'stay strong' or 'have courage as well as cunning', but she couldn't lower herself to platitudes. _

_So she walked away, reentering the corridor and abandoning her haven for the bustle of life. Had she asked Draco, though, either in that moment or years later, he would have told her that there was nothing that needed saying, her eyes had told him everything._

...

The memory of him hit Ginny like a ton of bricks, just like it had on the streets of London, just like it always did, and she felt the tears before she could stop them. She stared at the journal opened in her lap and glanced around for her missing pen. It had fallen to the floor where it sat, rocking with the gentle movements of the train. She stared at it, willing it to jump into her hands. When it didn't, she left it sitting there, and turned to stare out the window at the sunny landscape. She wondered where they were and if they were in Scotland yet.

She wasn't ready for this, she realized. There was no way she could really go back. Back to the beginning. But the train barreled forward and she realized that she was already there, stuck. So she let them in.

...

_Ginny slowly opened the door to the room of requirement, not sure what she would see. The space inside was small and dark, despite the massive black fire in the center of the room. It sat, ghost-like, on the center of a persian rug, casting flickers of dim gray light about the room. There was a black chaise lounge to the right, and as Ginny closed the door, she whispered quietly, "Harry?"_

_A movement to her left caused her to jerk around, her wand out in an instant, though unsteady. _

"_Ginny," Harry said, copying her soft tone, "You came."_

_His shape slowly appeared out of the darkness, her eyes adjusting. "Of course."_

_He was crying, she realized now, and she lowered her wand, stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug. He held onto her with all his might, his body shaking with harsh sobs. She somehow maneuvered him over to the lounge and pulled him down with her, settling his body against hers as he cried. _

_After several minutes of the two of them just holding each other, Harry pulled away. "I bet you think I'm silly," he said, his voice sad and only mildly defensive._

_Ginny hesitated, "Harry — no, not at all."_

_He glanced up at her, surprisingly calm. She continued, "I think you're incredible, and not just for what you did as a child, but how you've grown and the man that you've become." Silence descended in the dark room, and if she had leaned just an inch to the right, his body heat would have disappeared, and she would have been alone here. "Harry, not that I'm not okay with this, but why am I here?"_

_He smiled weakly at her. "I needed some support."_

_There was quiet for a long time as they stared into the fire that didn't crackle, didn't burn, and hardly cast any light except eerie gray shadows. _

"_I suppose you know we're leaving?" he asked, speaking with a full voice for the first time that night._

_She started at the volume, before ducking her head. "Yeah, when?"_

"_Next week," he said, "We just came so Hermione could swipe a few books. And so I could say goodbye."_

_Ginny nodded. "I thought it would be soon."_

_There was another long silence. "You understand, right?" he asked, taking her hand, their palms clammy in each other's grip. Ginny tried not to pull away. "Voldemort threw down the gauntlet when he attacked my Uncle's house. And this is my last chance, there's not much time left."_

_Ginny closed her eyes, a headache building up behind her brows. How had this happened so quickly? Where had the time gone? When had her sixth year even started? It felt like she was still ten, watching everyone getting onto the train, leaving her behind. Did she even have the time to say her goodbyes? "Of course, Harry. I know you have to go, I know all three of you have to go."_

"_Are you angry with me?" _

"_Why would I be angry?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. _

"_Because we haven't asked you to come with us," Harry said, "Hermione thought you might be."_

_She chuckled, despite herself. "No, Harry, I'm not angry. I wouldn't want to leave anyway." _

_He sighed, releasing her hand and flopping gracelessly backwards onto the cushion. "That's what I told them you'd say. This isn't your fight anyway."_

"_Of course it is," she said, "It's everyone's."_

_Harry acquiesced with a reluctant nod before sitting up. "The real reason I asked you to come… there's something I have to do before I leave." He reached down by his feet pulling out a wrapped bundle that she hadn't noticed before. _

_In the dim light, she leaned forward to see it, pulling the cloth away so she could look inside._

"_Be careful," he warned, and she saw why. Beneath her fingers was a silver mirror, shattered, the glass pieces reflecting something that was not either of them. _

_She stared at it, and then looked up at him. "It was Sirius's. I have to part with it before I can leave. It's a burden I can't–" his voice hitched "–It's a burden I won't carry anymore."_

_Ginny felt the calm in the room melt away once again into the hysterical remorse she had felt when she first entered._

_Harry pulled the silver part out, shaking it to remove the shards, and then handed it to her. He walked over to the fire and dropped the cloth in, the flames flaring up silently and turning a ghostly purple. She sighed softly. If not for the tears she felt in her eyes, it would have been beautiful. _

_Standing, she walked over to him and handed him the rest of the mirror. The heat of the fire was unbearable, despite the fact that she hadn't even noticed it before. Harry held out the silver, catching it in the top of the flames. _

_He cried out with the surge of heat, but he didn't let go, and Ginny watched, transfixed at the silver liquified at the tip, dripping onto the floor. Finally, with wretched sob, he dropped the piece of metal into the fire and it was gone. It hadn't made a sound as it hit the floor. Harry stumbled backwards, clutching his left hand, and crying noisily. _

_So she went to him, jerking her eyes from the wicked flames and pulling him once more towards her. This time she cried with him, tears leaking down her cheeks silently as she took his hand to heal the burns. Together they rocked back and forth, mourning the loss of something much greater than themselves. _

_Finally, after what must have been hours, Ginny left him there, curled into a sleeping ball on the chaise lounge. She kissed his forehead and whispered comforting words softly, before she slipped out the door and ran down towards the dungeon. She cast warming charm after warming charm on herself as she smoked, but she didn't sleep. _

_She was comparing him to Draco, she had realized late into the night, dark against light, though neither fitting where they belonged quite right. She tried to stifle the chuckle that came out as a half-sob, echoing in the small space. _

_It was a long time before she ever really felt warm again._

...

_Ginny sat down in the empty courtyard, waiting for the tears to come. She tried to light her cigarette, Draco's lighter failing in her fumbling hands. Again and again the wheel sparked the flint, but the flame wouldn't hold. She let out a loud moan in frustration and pulled the unlit cigarette from her lips. She managed to set it and the lighter down on the bench before dissolving into tears. _

_Just a few seconds later, the door opened to her right, and she felt him enter. Even as his presence calmed her nerves, she couldn't stop the crying. Her shoulders shook and her breaths heaved as he pulled her upright and into his arms. She felt herself settling into the touch, both warming and disconcerting. They had hardly ever touched, and never so deliberately. _

"_I came as soon as I heard," he whispered, tucking her head under his chin. "I'm sorry, it'll be okay."_

_She felt the sobs building in her chest as she tried to stifle them and angrily wrenched herself out of his grasp. The cold that she hadn't felt before hit her hard. "How is it going to be okay?" she yelled, the anger and fear pulling her control back to the surface. "He's dead, Draco. Dead. I spoke to him last night and–" her voice cracked and she fell silent, sinking to her knees. "And we talked about his next project and he was smiling and now…" She trailed off, resting her hands on the cobbled stones as she tried to catch her breath._

_When she looked up his grey eyes met hers, seeming unspeakable warm. He crouched down, and his hand came to rest on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said with a weak smile, "poor word choice."_

_And then he pulled her to her feet and directed her to her bench. The tears came slowly now, silently, resolutely. He handed her cigarette to her and then shook his lighter before stretching over to light it. She breathed in and felt the fire in her throat burning with her tears. _

_She felt empty as she sat on the bench, shaking. His cloak fell over her shoulders and she looked up, meeting his eyes again. "It's not okay," she repeated. _

_He shrugged, sitting down next to her and casting a warming charm. The heat enveloped them, and she took a moment the sink into the soft black cloth, it was so warm and smelled like him. A scent she that she would have been able to immediately recognize before but not place until now. Now she knew with certainty that it was his, and she was comforted by that, by it. It smelled of home, not of her home with the scents of cooking and earth and life, but just of /ihomei — a scent of rightness and of place._

"_Just last night, before he went to bed, he was telling me of his new project. He had found a Muggle printer, you see, one who would do massive, mural sized prints of photos. Something called gelatin. He was so excited, said he was going to document all of the places here that were peaceful enough to forget the war. I was going to bring him here, maybe. He was so excited, you see? So excited."_

_The words stumbled out over Ginny's tongue, a slow and sad litany. She kept talking until she couldn't anymore, the memories overflowing. His sandy brown hair and way his voice had dropped before he had hit his growth spurt, leaving a lasting impression of him as a man shorter than her for all eternity. He would always be that, though. In her memory he would always have his camera and his big ideas. _

_Draco's hand was rubbing circles on her back and she wondered why. _Why?

"_Sometimes," she said, "I would steal his camera. Just for an hour or so, and take pictures of him with friends when he was never looking. He used to tell me that his camera was a nice way to pretend that the wall between himself and everyone else was self-construed. He always felt like some sort of an outsider."_

_Draco's hand stilled and Ginny realized she had gotten ash all over his cloak, she tried to brush it away, but his other hand stilled hers. "Don't worry about it."_

_She smirked, despite herself, "I suppose you have ten more just like it." _

_He released her hand and shrugged. "No, just one."_

_She sniggered and then sniffled heavily. The tears were drying up. "After he developed them, once, he came up and thanked me. I didn't know why at first, but when we were flipping through all of his albums one day, I found that he kept all of those separate from the others. He was just like that, I guess. To really look at the world, you have to not be part of it. And he just never stopped looking." _

_Draco made a small noise, and she couldn't tell if he was agreeing or not. She wiped the tears away from her face and pulled out another cigarette. He handed her the lighter, and she managed to actually get the flame to last long enough for her to pull the first bit of smoke into her lungs. She sank back against his hand, and felt herself unwillingly gravitating towards his chest. _

_He hadn't been wearing his robes under his cloak, and, despite the warming charms, he was obviously freezing. She rested her head against his chest, dragging in and out, before she finally felt somewhat composed. She sat back up slowly, and his hand dropped. _

_When she turned to look at him, he was staring at the opposite wall. "It's going to be a long winter," he said slowly. He slouched over his knees, his elbows resting on them, and his forehead fell into his hands. _

"_And a cold one," she responded softly. _

_He glanced over at her, and his wry smile graced his face. _

"_I am sorry about Colin," he said, his voice far too soft. _

_Ginny flinched at the name; she hadn't said it for a reason. "Yeah," she said, "Me too. And you were right before, it will be okay."_

_He shrugged. "In time."_

"_Let's hope we have enough of it."_

"_Of time?" he said with a smirk that she didn't fully understand._

"_Yeah," she said with a whisper. "It's not like we can really be sure."_

_Draco stood slowly at that and began to pace. "I guess we shouldn't waste it then."_

_His feet moved around the courtyard at a slow pace, every step even and sure. She felt a strange desire to laugh and the first of the chuckles that flowed from her lips brought him to a halt. "How can we even know?" she asked, giggling hysterically. _

_His look clearly told her that she was mad. "Know what?"_

"_Whether or not we're wasting time?" she asked, still laughing. His lips were beginning to twist into a smile. "I mean, right now, living, I mean, really living, hardly seems like an option. There's too much fear. All we can do is wait. But waiting is always a waste of time, isn't it?"_

_He smiled then, not fully, but not mockingly either. "Depends on what you're waiting for. And living, really living, is always an option, Gin."_

_Her name from his mouth just made her laugh harder. And then she was crying again. "Oh gods," she said through her hiccoughs, "I am such a mess."_

_He sat down beside her again, this time on the ground, and leaned back against the bench. His face tilted towards the sky, his eyes closed, and Ginny stared at him. Her tears fell, and her silent sobs shook her body as she looked upon him. His flawless skin, too pale, was without a hint of color. His eyes were bruises, the black circles underneath just barely hidden beneath a glamour. His hair the color of raw silk. She reached out and touched it, running her fingers across the strands. _

"_Life is messy," he said, startling her when he opened his eyes. In this light, they were darker than slate after it rained and filled with questions. She wished she could answer them. _

_Her hand stilled in his hair, letting the strands fall from her fingers. She wanted to touch him today, feel that he was alive beneath his cold skin, feel that she was once more grounded to this earth. _

"_Yes," she said, after a moment, searching idly for another cigarette. "Yes, I suppose it is."_

_His eyes closed again as the world around them darkened. She knew it was time to go, but instead, she let her body sink to the ground next to him. They weren't touching now, but after she cast another warming charm it almost felt like the were, and she settled into the space, letting the memories of another blond boy, so different but with marked similarities, fill her thoughts. _

"_Too messy," she whispered. _

"_Perhaps," was his only reply before they both fell silent, staying just like that until the stars came out and her body ached with the stillness. _

...

It had just made it all the more real, Ginny remembered. Colin's death and the firm grip of Draco's arms around her. It was probably then, she thought, that she had started spinning out of control, spinning so fast that she was lifted off the earth and away. It was also then that she had found it — the thing that would always ground her again.

Not three days later, and she was helping Harry, Hermione, and Ron sneak out of the castle. A hurried goodbye and then they were gone, and the castle felt quiet in their absence. It felt like nothing had changed, just that time had stopped passing. Ginny closed her eyes and remembered the way that she had felt when their letters arrived, only occasionally, always short. But they left her with a feeling of supreme gratitude. They were still alive. She finally reached down and picked her pen up off the compartment floor, trying to remember things other than the routines she had fallen into after that.

But there was nothing but the small reminders that every day she was growing older and that every day some sort of culmination was getting closer.

...

_It was Wednesday. It must have been because both she and Draco were there before dinner, and Wednesday was the only day that that ever happened. They had started talking earnestly when he was here, mostly just sharing the sounds of voices, the noises that told them they weren't alone. Sometimes she wondered vaguely why she wasn't more upset that he had just started showing up here all the time, invading her small hideout with the sheer enormity of his presence. But then she had grown accustomed to it, and she had gotten used to seeing his face here, even begun to expect it. And after Colin's death, she had become grateful for it. _

_When he was here, she was forced to watch him. And when he wasn't here, she was forced to think about the fact that she was alone. It wasn't that she particularly liked or disliked his presence — though she was growing rather fond of it. It wasn't that they connected when they spoke — though she supposed they did. It was simply the fact that when he was here, she couldn't ignore him. And when he wasn't, she couldn't ignore the fact that he wasn't. But it was still a haven, the courtyard, a place where all else _could _be ignored. _

_Once, she had tried to calculate the hours they had spent here since he had shown up in her courtyard last April, but the cigarettes now scattered across the ground blended together and the words spoken disappeared. The more she tried to remember, the more she forgot. _

_And on that day, he sat on her stone bench and she sat down next to him, tentatively. They were just far enough away to not be touching, but they were also so close that she could feel his body heat and was grateful for it._

_They sat in silence through the first cigarette and Ginny lit another, knowing that she wouldn't be back later._

_When he asked her a question, it took her a moment to realize that he had spoken, so deep was she in her thoughts. She turned to look at him, and he repeated himself. _

"_Did you know they were leaving?" _

_She shrugged. "Yeah." It had been three weeks since the middle of November, when Harry, Ron and Hermione had left on their quest. She hadn't heard from them since. _

_He nodded. "Doesn't it make you angry?"_

_Ginny bit her lip, thinking, "Not really. I'm worried about them. I miss them. But I'm not angry that they left or that they didn't take me with them."_

_The silence fell again, but didn't last. _

"_You've been hanging out with Pansy," he said, and from the tone, she couldn't tell if he was asking or stating a fact. _

_She wasn't sure how to respond, so she shrugged again. When she glanced over at him, she was startled to find his eyes on her. There was something hidden there, something regretful and envious. _

"_She's your friend too?" she ventured._

_He didn't turn away, but he cast his eyes to the bench where their hands rested next to each other. "She was."_

_The only thing notable about the way he said it was the total lack of emotion. Ginny sighed. "I think she misses you."_

_Draco started visibly, his body tensing, "Did you tell her about…" he trailed off._

_Ginny found his confusion fitting; she had no idea what there would be to tell. "About this?" she asked._

_He nodded, meeting her eyes intently. _

"_No."_

_He nodded. "Good, don't tell anyone."_

_She snorted. "As if anyone would believe me. And it would mean telling people about my bad habit anyway." She flicked the dead cigarette from her fingers, watching it hit the far wall. _

"_Thank you," he said. _

"_We all need secrets."_

_The silence crept up on them again; she found herself smiling through it, though. She knew it wouldn't last. Some days they wouldn't speak at all. Some days, Ginny felt that she had to talk. Today, it seemed like it was Draco's turn. _

"_How's she doing?" Draco asked quietly, as if he hoped he wouldn't be heard._

_Ginny smiled, leaning backwards on the bench until her head rested on the ground behind her. Draco shot her a look as if she was crazy, but she ignored it, thinking back to the library. _

_Pansy with her smile and her forced arrogance and her charming self-deprecation. She would be so angry if she could hear her now. "She misses you, I think, but she and Blaise have been in the library every night to avoid you. I think that they know it's necessary but wish it wasn't. As far as her moods — she's had better, but I think she feels righteous, so it's okay."_

_Draco nodded. "And Blaise?"_

_Ginny sighed. "I tend to leave when he shows up, all we've ever done is fight. But I think he misses you too."_

_There was nothing but silence now, and Ginny rolled her shoulders, stretching further back. She sighed, relishing the relaxed feeling of her muscles. _

_Slowly she tried to sit up. She couldn't. She tried again. Nothing. She groaned. _

"_Stuck?" he asked her with an incredibly amused smirk. _

_She frowned at him. "Yes."_

_He offered her his hand and awkwardly pulled her back up to sitting. It was one of the few times they had touched since Colin's death, and their hands were both so icy, she shivered. _

"_Does it have to be this way?" she asked after their amusement had faded._

_He sighed again, a long, somber sigh that spoke more of his age than it had any right to. "Yes. It's for them, even if they can't see it."_

"_I know, but…"_

"_You wouldn't understand, Gryffindor," he said finally, though there was no malice there, just a warning. _

"_I know," she repeated, "But they might."_

_He didn't respond at all, just lit another. Ginny glanced at her watch, they were missing dinner, and she didn't care._

_She opened her pack, staring balefully at her last cigarette before slowly pulling it out and lighting it. _

"_So what are you going to do?" she asked._

_He smirked at her, all playfulness, and she could tell he was dismissing the seriousness of her question. "What do you think?"_

_She answered with a cryptic smirk of her own, artfully hiding her honest answer. _

_What would any of them do? They would play their parts, protecting the ones they loved as best they could while sacrificing pieces of themselves._

"_What do you think I should do?" he asked, a few minutes later, as her last cigarette winded to a close. _

_Ginny wanted to tell him to do what he thought was right, to do what he could to protect his friends, wanted to tell him to save himself. But she knew, even with only the tiniest grip on the situation, that all of those things contradicted and that difficult choices would have to be made. _

_So she just shrugged. "I don't know. I don't even think I'm supposed to. This is war, is it not?"_

_He chuckled lightly, a cynic's response. "That's what I've been told."_

_She shivered in the cold. It was already December, soon it would be Christmas. Had she stopped to think about it, she may have found it strange how different things had become since the three of them had left, or how odd it was that she and Draco kept meeting here for cigarettes, or even how bizarre it was that they could talk about things like war with smiles while the whole world was falling apart. But she didn't stop to think about it, she couldn't because that would have meant that there was something wrong with it, and she was longing dreadfully for something in her life to be right. _

_She laughed lightly with him, trying to push away her reservations. The silence didn't come back as they talked for another hour, wasting time before going back inside, and she noticed the soothing atmosphere that they had created, even accidentally, just by changing the subject. _

_They told stories about their friends, they shared ideas about their classes, and they even had a miniature debate about a novel that Ginny was reading for Muggle Studies. _

_Finally, when the air changed, and she knew it was time to leave, she stood._

_He was still smiling in disbelief at something outrageous that she had said, and when he looked up at her, she felt a strange rush of peace. _

"_It's all going to be alright, you know," she said finally. _

_He smirked at her. "I'll believe that when I see it."_

_She cast her eyes across the darkened courtyard and said, "It will. It has to."_

_He stood up then as well, and she unconsciously took him in, his grace, his height, and the way that the weight had been removed from his shoulders. She felt sad with the knowledge that it was only temporary. _

_He seemed to notice her melancholy and when she glanced up at him, there was warmth in his gaze. "Perhaps eventually," he said, "But don't expect it any time soon. Things are as they have to be. After all, this is war, is it not?"_

_She heard the echo of her own words and smiled at him. "Yeah, that's what I've heard."_

_He nodded at her. "Just let it come as it will. And do whatever you can."_

_She knew that he was trying to comfort or reassure her, and she was grateful. She also knew that in some strange way, he was saying goodbye. She hoped he'd be coming back after break, but she knew that if he did, it would all be different anyway. _

_She nodded back at him, heading for the door. "You too."_

...

A cloud darted over the sun, casting an eerily dark light across Ginny's compartment, and she glanced around the space. It had seemed larger the first time she had ridden in one alone, and then smaller when people had joined her. How many jokes had she shared with her friends over sweets as this train carried them forward? She sighed, wondering what the journey had been like for others.

How long had she spent in compartments, waiting for the train to stop? She sighed, blinking as light once again flooded in through the window, warming her knees. It was almost too bright.

...

_They were coming back. She had gotten an owl from Harry, written very cleverly in a code that Hermione must have figured out for him. They were coming back that afternoon, and the battle was to start soon, she didn't know what soon meant, but considering the tone of Harry's hand, she would have guessed right away. The battle would be at Hogwarts. They was trying to intercept Voldemort. At least, that's what it seemed like he was saying from what she could discern. _

_Either way, she had been called by Madam Pomfry to get ready, and so she had done the only thing that she had wanted to do, ran as fast as she could to her haven, a pack of fags secured in her pocket. _

_Draco was in the courtyard, waiting for her, it appeared, because he stood anxiously when she entered. She wasn't startled, like she should have been. She hadn't seen him in months, not even in the hallways or at meals. She had almost begun to think he had never been there at all, and she realized with sudden clarity that she had missed him._

_For some time the significance of their meetings had been lost on her, but she wondered now, had they become friends?_

_The sky, though not completely visible, was clear, the noonday sun hanging almost directly over them, eerily casting the high-walled courtyard in full light. _

"_Ginevra," he said, sighing with a relieved smile. _

_She nodded at him, forcing a smile in return, before lighting a much-needed cigarette. _

_They were silent, standing opposite, both wondering exactly what this meant, what they meant, what the future meant. _

"_What are you going to do?" she asked softly. _

_He sighed, looking at the sky, and she couldn't take her eyes off of him. He looked so young, caught in the harsh light; his hair was the color of spun gold and his skin practically translucent. Yet she could see the age in the sharp focus of his eyes, the tension across his forehead. She stared at him while he stared at the sky, his jaw continuously unclenching and clenching. _

_He seemed powerful then, powerful and afraid. She stood watching and wondered if she too should be feeling some sort of fear, but her thoughts were interrupted by a thunderclap, and she started, looking up confusedly at the sky. _

_Clouds were circling the sun, moving in from all directions. A dark circle, approaching the center. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was also the most terrifying. In mere moments, the sun was snuffed out like a candle, and the world was cast in darkness. _

_Then the rain started._

_Draco looked at her, his eyes boring into her own. "It never ceases, does it?"_

_She shrugged vaguely, unsure of how to respond and wishing that she was older so that she might understand him. _

"_Are you ready?" he asked, his eyes still on hers. Time seemed to stop momentarily, the sound around them gone, the air going stagnant and still. Everything paused. And then sped up, and the first of many crashes sounded from beyond the walls._

"_How could I be?_"

_He sighed and then nodded at her, starting out of the courtyard._

"_Draco," she said softly, praying that he hadn't heard. He had. He stopped and turned to her. "Please be careful."_

_His lips twisted up into a soft smile. "You too."_

_She nodded, and as he walked away, she realized that he had answered all of her previously ignored questions with that one enigmatic look. She closed her eyes and said a soft prayer for him. For all of them. _

...

"Uh, miss?" A voice said, pulling Ginny out of her stupor. "Miss?"

She glanced up, her heart pounding in her ears, her hand shooting up to her face to wipe away the tears. But it came back dry and shaking.

"Miss?"

Ginny finally placed the face calling her, and her eyes focused on the older man staring at her in concern. "Yes?" she said shakily.

"We're here, in Hogsmeade. It's time for you to get off," he said, reaching out to steady her arm as she began to stand.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry."

He nodded, peering at her in concern and confusion.

She just gathered her belongings silently, closing her journal and stuffing it into her bag haphazardly. He followed her to the door of the train and she stared down at the platform hesitantly.

She hesitated momentarily and then took a deep breath, cursing herself and the fist clutching her heart firmly. Finally she stepped out, turning to watch as the door closed behind her. She watched as the train roared again to life, the whistle sounding loudly in her ears. She watched as it pulled away, leaving her on the empty platform.

Of course she wasn't ready. She had never been. And she was beginning to understand that perhaps she never would be. She was left standing there, staring around the familiar platform and almost unconsciously waiting for the sounds of school children to fill the air. For Hagrid's big, booming voice to call out to her.

But there was nothing and the school children were already here, in the castle, their castle now. Hagrid was long dead, lost years ago, the first of the truly shocking casualties. The killing curse stops for no one, after all, not even half giants.

Her feet turned towards the Hogwarts grounds, but her heart wasn't in it, not today, and so she wandered instead towards the inn. The streets were only slightly busy, as most people would still be at work, and Ginny took the time to wander lazily through the town. There were no remnants here, either, except the occasional plaque, commemorating a loss, and Ginny struggled against the searing nostalgia.

She had her first kiss here, underneath the mistletoe outside of what was then The Three Broomsticks, she had gone shopping with her first friends here at Zonko's and Honeydukes, she had even found her first strings of courage here, with the DA, and then later during the attack in January of her sixth year. But the town didn't remember her and she didn't remember it like this.

It had never been so normal before. It had always been bustling with school children in her first memories of it, and then later, when she had lived here, saturated with joy and grief.

She wandered into the inn, smiling at the man behind the bar. "Are you still serving lunch?"

He nodded. "What can I getcha?"

Her mouth watered at the thought of good, traditional pub food, and she sat down, staring at the menu. "A pint of bitter, steak pie, and a room?"

He smiled at her warmly. "Of course. You up from London?"

She watched as he picked up a glass and pulled the tap. "Yes," she replied, a real smile emerging on her face. He reminded her of her father, all warmth and authenticity.

"Gonna stay long?"

She shook her head. "Just a night." Or two, she thought. However long it took her to find the courage.

"Let me find you a key and get you your lunch. It'll probably be ready soon."

He disappeared from view and she took her pint and her purse over to a table against the wall. She took a long sip, reveling in the familiar taste, before sighing. No, she hadn't been ready. But it had come anyway.

Too soon, just like everything, she thought.

...

It was a shorter walk from Hogsmeade than Ginny remembered, and she crossed the empty grounds in the quiet autumn, stretching her legs up to the crest of the small hill to stare down at the lake and the memorial.

The wind brushed her hair back from her face, and the light caught the wall in harsh relief. It stood silently, waiting. _Are you ready?_ a voice whispered in her ear. Unconsciously, she shook her head and turned away from the wind.

The wall stood before her as it always had. The sun struck the blue stone in a way that cried out to her. It reminded her not of the common twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, but of a time long ago when tears had hovered behind his glasses as he apologized the her, as he asked her for forgiveness that he knew she could not give.

She placed her hand on the surface now, relishing the cold beneath her fingertips, and whispered, "We've forgiven you now."

The wind rustled around her, and as she listened, her lips curled up into a smile as the distant sound of the phoenix's song sent a benevolent calm through her bones.

The list, etched into the stone, stretched across in neat rows, transcribed by hand into the soft magical stone. It reminded her of the Vietnam War memorial in Washington D.C., but it seemed far removed from that smooth mirrored texture and reflected nothing but years of sadness.

Her hands brushed across the names that covered the surface, not really reading anything, not seeing at all. They rushed by, and with them came images of where she was when she heard about the deaths, about the tears she cried over her friends and her enemies, over people she had known and people she had never met.

Death was a needy and lonesome creature, calling for more and never satisfied. And so the list went on, for miles, for years, for lifetimes, and the tears that she felt coming fell again. They always fell here, as if no force on the earth could stop her from mourning.

And yet, she did not mourn for herself. The best of her friends and most of her family walked out of the war. She mourned for the brothers, the mothers, the friends that had lost people. She mourned for those still alive, and in doing so, she mourned for herself.

Confronting the wall always left her confronting herself. How was she to live now? What was she to do?

She knelt before the last name, brushing her fingers over it, Remus Lupin. Remus and Sirius seemed to bookend the entire war on this wall. Two people closer than any others, so alike and so different, each marking a beginning and an end. Sirius's death, though not the first, was the first the struck her, leaving her breathless and in denial, and Remus, who died while changing almost three weeks past the final battle, had been the last. The final call. The forgiver of sins. The mourner. Ginny had been there when it had happened. She had cried as his bones started to change, as he lashed out at her with angry words. She had cried for Tom and for Harry and for Draco and Remus and so many others.

They had known it was going to happen, they had known that it was coming and for twenty days they waited. Twenty days she spent in the hospital wing, watching and caring for others, twenty days when she would bring him his meals and silently pray for anything but the end that was coming too quickly.

She remembered the Marauders' Map, the tales Harry had told her about his father, and mother, but mostly she remembered the peaceful nostalgic look in Remus's eyes as she had spoken to him, removed from the world while she slowly fell in love with the intellectual side of him. And she would never forget the way he had turned to look at her when she told him that his next change would be his last.

He had stared at her and she had wept. She had held his hand, as he comforted her, and told him that the curse would steal him from this world.

And when she looked into his eyes, she was reminded of Charlie's death, the simple realization. And he had smiled softly, his smile telling her that he understood, and then he had asked her if she wanted to hear his stories.

She had never told anyone of what he had said during that time, while they waited for his last breath. While the world celebrated the end of a great and horrible war, while people slowly trickled out of the infirmary, healed, dead, or simply leaving. She never mentioned, not even to Harry, Remus's descriptions of Lily, or of the gang. She never told anyone about his secrets, about his guilt, about his transgressions. She had just listened, and at the end, she held his hand while his soul slipped away unburdened.

And when he had woken up again, he was not a man, but a beast. The words he spoke to her were the first true sign that the universe was wholly and terribly cruel, and, if there was a god, he was awful for transforming the strongest man she had ever met into a weakling.

And when he was gone, she had crawled into his bed, and sobbed into his chest for hours. She sobbed for the sweet boy who was constantly treated as less than what he was for something he couldn't help. She cried for James, his boyish good looks and the death of his parents. She cried for Peter, who had been nothing less than a confused child, scared and easily manipulated. And she cried for Sirius, born into a house that was never a home, and blamed for the death of the person he loved most in the world.

Hours she spent crying for a group of friends, so innocent at the outset, but never really innocent at all. She cried for the purity of their friendship, unmarred by their somewhat negative characteristics. And she cried for the end of an era, the last of the Marauders now gone.

They were nostalgic tears, tears of hate. She hated the evil that had created such pain. And more than anything else, she wanted to travel back, she wanted to see the healthy innocence that had been stolen. That seemed gone forever now.

And when her tears had finally tapered off, when she could cry no longer, she marked the body for removal or study, and then continued with her duties.

And kneeling at the wall now, she felt the familiar pain come at her like a blow to the head, and she stoppered it with the simple cold. She pressed her forehead against the stone and she waited. And slowly the old pains abated and she stood.

Her legs were weak, but they functioned, and Ginny stepped away, taking one last look and turning from the wall. The world had changed so much since she had left, but some things had not changed at all.

She suddenly wanted to leave, not just the grounds, but Scotland. She wanted to go back south, back to her life now. She let her feet carry her to the crest of the hill before she sank to her knees and waited for the world to stop spinning.

The castle loomed before her now, cold and wanting in the surreal light.

...

Ginny ignored the students, letting her feet lead her through the school as she breathed — in and then out.

Repeat.

There were moments from the past flowing through her now. Her friends' laughter, her teachers' praise, her brothers' shouts and tumbles. She felt herself smiling wistfully, remembering the way that they had all survived. The ways that they had all fought.

Her steps led her to the only place she really wanted to go, and so she went down, towards the dungeons, and then past the entrance to the Slytherin common room, along the narrow corridor, left and then right, and she hadn't forgotten. It had been a long four years since she had walked this way. But there it was: the simple oak door. She smiled again as she opened it, stepping out into her courtyard.

The door closed behind her with a bang that echoed, bouncing off the walls and traveling towards the sky. She looked up at the circular patch of grey and waited, but nothing happened and the echoes faded.

So she sat. Her bench was where it had always been, perpetually cold and hard. The cigarette butts beneath her feet remained as well, older, more faded, but still there.

She stared at them, a mixture of white and brown, for what felt like hours when, suddenly, the tears came. She couldn't believe that it had all been real. That the moments spent here had actually happened. Her secret escape had remained a secret for so long, she had begun to wonder if they had ever met.

But there were his filters, standard brown and dotting this small landscape that seemed to record her Hogwarts years. The tears didn't stop, flowing down her cheeks easily as she remembered. Words spoken, accidental touches, shared looks, random connections.

It had all been real.

She pulled out her journal, and uncapped her pen. The page was blank and she stared at it, longing something of what she was feeling at that moment to appear. A drop of water fell on the page, soaking into the paper and leaving a star shaped smudge. She wiped it away with wry amusement, letting her pen skate across the wet place, watching the ink spider out.

_If just one person understands you, knows the truth of you, than that, I think, is enough_.

Her eyes fell closed, and when she opened them, they fell on the wall just opposite. There was a stone missing — a stone that had always been there before. She stood and crossed to it quickly.

The small gap there beckoned her, and she reached inside, her fingers closing around a cool object. She pulled it out and stared at it. A silver lighter rested in her palm — his silver lighter. She clenched her fingers around it, her heart aching. How long had it been since her fingers closed around the cold metal? How many times had she frantically regretted leaving it behind?

She held it clenched in her hand for a moment before she noticed the paper. Slowly she uncurled her fingers. A small note was tied to it.

_You left this._

And Ginny knew that this was his writing, even though she had never seen it before. The harsh certainty of it, the confident forming of the letters, the elegant shaping left no doubt in her mind.

"Draco," she whispered, the name still foreign on her lips and unsatisfactory to her ears.

She whipped around, looking for him, but there was no one. In the cold, she sunk to her knees, and she placed it. She finally placed that lost feeling that had held her so closely to the past.

She missed him. And she wondered what love really was, and if it was truly impossible.

...

It was long past lunch when Ginny ventured out of the courtyard again, her cigarettes gone and her tears wasted. She wandered down the corridor and out into the great hall, turning left and letting her feet take her in whatever direction they pleased. When she stopped in front of the Hospital Wing, she heard him again, the whispered question hovering in her ears.

_Are you ready?_

She nodded to herself, her hand closing around the lighter in her fist, as she steeled herself and opened the door. Empty.

She crossed the room quietly, and lay down on the farthest bed, staring up at the ceiling and waiting. Her eyes slipped closed and, again, she reminded herself to breathe.

"Charlie," she whispered, her heart a little broken. She felt the tears pooling in her eyes. _Love and war._

Ginny said it out loud then, opening her eyes and pulling herself from the past. "Nothing's fair. There is no real justice other than perceived justice. We set our own standards, make our own rules. We create our own expectations."

She sat up, welcoming the silence in the Hospital Wing. It was so refreshing. It had been silent when it all ended too, when the last person had stood, shaken out his cloak and left.

With a nod, then, she pulled herself from the bed, a strange anticipation setting over her. There were no tears left in her. She had cried too much that day already and remembering Charlie only made it easier to keep going forward. So her feet followed the same path that they had that evening so long ago and took her towards the end.

Then she was outside, standing on the top step and looking down at the pitch, waiting. But there was no noise, except for the few students heading back up to the castle, and there was no fear, except for her fear of herself.

She sat down at the side, and looked upwards. The clouds were gathering; rain was coming.

The students passed her on the way in, glancing at her curiously, but not stopping. They were young, only first or second years, and looked confident and free. She wanted to smile at them, but she couldn't.

The last one, trailing far behind paused, then walked over to her.

He was silent for a moment, and she turned her head to meet his eyes. They were blue, bluer than the clear sky, and dark. Like Charlie's. Like her own. He blinked. "Excuse me, miss, is there something you need?"

She forced a brief smile. "No, I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing?"

Ginny looked away, upwards again. She felt the tears in her throat and her bottom lip. "I'm waiting for the rain."

The boy followed her eyes upwards. "Well, you won't have to wait much longer."

Her lip trembled again, and she nodded. He seemed unsure of what to do, but, after a long moment, he turned and went inside. She never knew if he looked back.

This was what she remembered: the rain.

But it wasn't going to rain now. The sun came out instead, drying the tears on her face as she sat there in quiet shock, her palm burning fiercely.

The stairs still looked the same, just as she did. So much had happened that night. Her heart had broken, shattered in an instant. And then the world had started to heal itself. How were those two great things possible at the same time?

She sat and stared over the grounds, greener than they had any right to be in November, as she waited.

She didn't know what she was waiting for anymore. She just knew that she was waiting.

"Ginny?" A voice sounded from above her, and she turned around. Harry Potter was standing several stairs above her, looking down curiously. "A very confused student told me you were out here."

Ginny blinked. What was he doing here? She blinked again. She had almost forgotten that he had started teaching here. "Harry," she finally said, "Hello."

He grinned at her, and a part of her ached. That was the smile that she had fallen for before the war started in earnest. Even now it spoke to her of the promise that they had had before everything began. Before they had both been broken.

"It's been a long time since I've seen you smile like that," she said softly as he came down the stairs to join her.

She watched him glance away guiltily before focusing on his hands. "It was a long time before I ever could again."

Ginny glanced back out over the grounds, letting the sound of the wind rustling over them calm her slightly. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to come back eventually," Ginny said with a shrug, "To pay my respects."

Harry sighed. "Yeah. You could have told me you were coming. I know it's never easy."

How could she explain to him that she didn't want him there? Not that she wanted to be alone, though it did make it easier, but that she hadn't wanted to be reminded of her own failure. "I just didn't think of it," she said almost truthfully.

They drifted off into silence, watching as the sun slowly began its decent. "How do you do it, Harry?"

She felt his eyes trained on her. "Do what?"

"Spend every day here, surrounded by the past."

She met his eyes, still so green that they seemed unnatural. "It's not that hard," he responded slowly, "After all, my best memories are here. Some of my worst as well, of course, but the best can't be forgotten just because of that."

She stared at him, quietly stunned. "Harry…"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"You've changed."

He laughed at that, the grin splitting his face and showing his age even as he transformed into a boy again. "Of course I have. You don't think they would have asked me to be a teacher if I was still sulking at the bottom of a bottle, do you?"

Ginny half-smiled at that, distracted by her own memories of that. "But you haven't changed at all," he said, his smile softening. "I would have thought that you would at least have an American accent now, but you seem the same. Except–" he tilted his head away from her "–better."

She chortled at that; she could tell he was lying. "If only."

They fell silent, and the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. "I never apologized," he began slowly.

She turned her body to look at him fully. "For what?"

"For putting you through that. I was pretty fucked up after the war, and I know that I wasn't very… good for you."

She sighed, releasing some sort of resentment she had long forgotten she carried. "I should be the one apologizing, Harry. You spent two years of your life with me, and I couldn't help you."

He shook his head, placing a hand over hers, a warm blanket over her freezing fingers. "You did more than enough, Gin. And you still had the strength to leave. That was the best thing you ever did, for both of us."

She remembered the screaming match they had had that night; both yelling for no reason, agreeing and yet still so filled with anger. They had hurt each other a lot in the end. "Perhaps," was all she said.

"Besides," he said squeezing her hand, "There was nothing that you could do for me. I had to do it for myself."

"You're still my biggest failure," she said, forcing a laugh — a pathetic attempt to clear the air.

He smiled wanly at her, "I didn't want your help, Ginny, not in that way. And that was the real problem, wasn't it?"

She raised her eyebrows at him.

"You always thought of me as a patient, of someone you could fix, and I was never that." She could hear the bitterness in his tone and she shrank away from it mentally, pulling her hand away from his.

"I don't fix people."

"But you tried to fix me."

She stared at him sadly, the gap between them seeming impassably wide now. She didn't want to argue with him, so she bit back her response turning back towards the grounds.

"I am sorry, Gin," he said with a sigh. "It shouldn't have been that way."

Irritation prickled beneath her skin; how was it that he always had this effect on her? "But it was," she responded softly, pulling her elbows to her knees to rest her chin between her hands.

"Yes," he said softly, "It was."

...

Harry disappeared inside not long after that and she sat, unmoving as she watched the last rays of the sun slowly disappear. Perhaps he had not changed that much, after all.

She pulled out her journal, staring at the last words she had written there, before putting her pen on the page. She needed to steady herself. She needed rationality instead of all the pointless questions racing around her brain. She turned it to a random page, hoping to pull herself together. But she couldn't get her eyes in focus and the sun was setting.

Slowly, she stood, feeling gentle, as if her interaction with the world was tentative. She crossed the grounds, walked down the streets, packed her bags, got into a fireplace, and stepped out in London.

She tried, and failed, to shake herself out of her stupor before she crawled into bed.

It was only seven o'clock, but she slept all the way through the night and well into the next day.

And when she woke in the early morning, her hand on her chest, her breaths coming fast, she didn't have to remind herself that it was just a dream before she sank back into sleep.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Means the world to me guys! xxx


	4. Chapter 4: The Rape of Philomel

Chapter 4: The Rape of Philomel

* * *

_We watched the plumes paint the sky gray  
__As she laughed and danced through the field of gray  
__There I knew that we would be alright  
__That everything would be alright  
__And the news reports on the radio  
__Said it was getting worse  
__As the ocean air fanned the flames  
__But i couldn't think of anywhere i would have rather been to watch it all burn away  
__To burn away  
_ -Death Cab for Cutie, 'Grapevine Fires'

* * *

_The gates of Hogwarts loomed before her, and Ginny dug her fingernails into her palms. She was leaving now; she had to. Her body refused to move though, and she found herself fighting tears._

"_One step," she growled fiercely, lifting her leg. But it had hardened. Her knee would not bend. She glanced down at her feet and screamed. Vines were coming out of the ground, encasing her legs. She struggled, but still they grew, approaching her waist. They whispered to her, words in a language she couldn't speak. But she could feel their growth now, could feel her skin turning to bark, her body to a trunk. _

_She screamed again, and then Harry was there, held up between Pomfry and her father. "Aren't you supposed to be flying away, Gin?" he asked, his words slurred as his head rolled around drunkenly. _

"_You did this!" she shrieked, but she was looking at her father's sad face, not Harry's. And suddenly, she was on the other side of the gates, facing the school. It was raining, and she could feel her roots — her feet — taking in the water, soaking it up, feeding her, as her arms were overtaken by the branches. She clenched her teeth and looked up into the falling water._

_It fell from clouds that were the wrong shade of grey. "You're wrong, Gin," a voice said softly, an awkward caress over the rough bark of her skin. "I did. Don't resist, you need to drink."_

_Ginny attempted to scream once more, but a flash of green — was that the leaves at her fingertips — and everything was black. _

Ginny woke up with a start, coming fully awake to complete darkness. For a moment, her breath quickened, and then she sighed, finally opening her eyes and looking around her empty room, hazy light from the street filtering in through the blinds. She rolled over and sighed again. It was not time to wake up yet.

...

Ginny's head rested against the back of the booth she had taken to calling her own in the coffee shop across from her office. Her hands curled around her mug as she sat there, slowly letting the sinking feeling fade as she gathered herself. Why did they have to cry like that? As if they had been broken beyond repair and they wanted nothing more than for her to fix them?

Ginny let the breath she was holding in her lungs out slowly. This job had way too much baggage to be carried around all day. She sighed heavily and sank even further down. She had only been back from Scotland for three days, but she was angrier with herself than she had ever been. She had been expecting some sort of revelation, some sort of result from her journey, but there had been none. She felt the same as she had before.

She was still lost. Her eyes slid over her coffee and she took a long, thankful sip. It was too hot and it scalded her, but she let it slide down her throat, welcoming the jarring heat. She had hoped it would be over; she should have known better.

She was just about to open up her case file when a throat cleared above her. Thank god she had already set her coffee cup down, because if she hadn't, she would have dropped it.

She blinked, but he was still there, still patient, when she opened her eyes.

"Draco."

"Ginevra," he said with a smug smile as he dropped into the seat across from her.

"What — What are you doing here?" she asked shakily. He stared across at her evenly, his grey eyes lighter than she remembered and his hair just as fine. There was something different about him, but she couldn't pinpoint it. He still looked so much the same, just broader, as he had gained some much needed weight, and looser, most of the burdens dispelled.

"I've been looking for you. You wouldn't take my appointments, you hung up on me, what else was I supposed to do?"

"Give up?" she asked, while knowing that there was no way he would have done that. "There's a reason I've been avoiding you."

He just smirked, looking so much like she remembered from the hallways and the time before that she almost burst into tears. "And I'm sure it's a very good one."

Her hands stopped shaking suddenly, and she took a moment to just look at him. The change was hard to place, but there was definitely _something_ new about him. Something that comes unexpectedly, but unavoidably, with age. It had been too long since she had seen him, too long since she had taken in his simple smell or seen that arrogant smirk. She almost closed her eyes and sighed, tempted to revel in that sense of place, that comfort, that was totally inexplicable.

The silence over took them for a moment before a woman came over and set a coffee mug on the table in front of him. She sighed, the notion of escaping when he got up to order disappearing, and the tension between them dispersed.

He took a sip and then smiled, a smile that she recognized. It was the smile that hovered briefly on his lips during his first drag, never fully there, but displaying so much simple pleasure. And suddenly she was back in their courtyard, yearning for silence and for sound all at once. Instinctively, her fingers curled around his lighter in her pocket, finding warmth in the cool metal.

"Have you read the papers?" He asked smoothly as he set down his coffee mug.

"That's what you came here to talk about? The news?" She asked incredulously, turning away to keep from flushing as his tongue darted out to catch the coffee on his lips.

He looked down on her as if she was a child. "No."

"Then what?"

It took him a moment to answer, and she could not, for the life of her, understand the look on his face. "The prisoner that escaped… it was Rodolphus Lestrange."

Ginny shrugged, "So? You should tell the ministry and not me; they can't seem to figure it out."

Draco stared at her in exasperation. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

The irritation she had been trying to keep track of all day flared within, and she glared at him.

"He's out and he wants revenge."

Draco waited, but Ginny said nothing, covering her confusion and the way her heart sped up with a long sip of coffee.

"On you."

"What?"

"He knows."

"He knows what?"

"About Bellatrix."

Rain, green light, burning, burning, burning. Ginny set the mug down too quickly, both in shock and fear. It clattered and brown liquid splashed on the table. She wiped it away quickly, her fingers only trembling slightly.

"What? He knows? How do you know?"

Draco looked away, the first time he had since he had arrived. "Don't ask me that, Gin."

She sighed and started to gather her things, finished her coffee in two gulps, and pulled on her jacket. "You're mistaken."

"I'm not," he said softly, looking back over at her, "You have to be careful."

She didn't look back at him as she stood and carefully extracted herself from the booth. "Fine, whatever, I'll watch my back."

She adjusted her scarf and then picked up her bag. "It's not as simple as that."

She half turned, not letting her eyes meet his, not letting herself give away that her heart was beating as if it needed out of her chest.

"It's over, Draco."

She didn't really hear the last thing he said as she walked away, but she thought it sounded something like: "You know it's not."

With a worried shake, she pushed it all aside and stepped through the door, pulling out her umbrella as she did. Her eyes slid closed, but all she saw was green and all she heard was the rain.

It was always raining in this god-forsaken place.

She felt the tears coming as she started to step from underneath the awning, when a hand closed around her wrist. She started, pulled away from slick stairs and the heat suddenly. She snapped around and stared vacantly at Draco.

"Gin," he said softly, "I am sorry, but you need to understand how important this is."

"Sorry for what?" she snapped angrily, pulling away roughly. His hand dropped down to his side and he stared at the ground.

The stillness between them was tangible, a wall that kept her from moving, from thinking. Then he patted the front of his jacket as if searching for something and it was gone. Finally he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Still smoke?" he asked not meeting her eyes. His voice was soft and sad but concerned.

She stared at the cigarettes in his hand, before taking one. "That question merits no answer."

He chuckled and she reached instinctively into her pocket and pulled out his lighter. She hadn't even noticed that she had, until she caught him looking at it.

She held it out to him and he took it with a nod, lighting his own. "You've been back?"

She shrugged noncommittally. "Had to go back sometime."

He exhaled a stream of smoke away from her face before he tipped back against the exposed brick wall. The pose was a familiar one, and she wondered, only for a moment, how she could have everything about him memorized still.

She leaned her hip against the wall as well, facing his profile. She stared at the ground and then bent idly to retrieve the umbrella that she hadn't noticed she'd dropped.

"All those cigarettes," she said with a sigh, "What were we then?"

Draco turned his head to look at her, taking her in silently. She stared right back, meeting his eyes evenly, and wondering what she looked like to him. Did he see her age? Her calm? Did she look more mature, as he did? Or did she look exactly the same, as she felt?

"Same thing we are now, I suppose," he answered eventually, before turning his face back to the street.

She nodded, there was something about this, familiar, unguarded; she could resist all she wanted to, but if anything, Ginny knew that she was a creature prone to giving in. The same safety that had surrounded them in the courtyard, that she had felt when he sat down, threatened to weaken her guard now, if she let it.

"And what are we?" she asked, unable to keep it in. Unwilling.

He dropped his cigarette on the ground and ground it out slowly. His eyes found hers slowly, reluctantly, before he pushed away from the wall. "Waiting."

She stayed as she had been before, leaning slightly, the sigh escaping her lips before she could stop it.

He nodded to her– "Please be careful" –and then he stepped out from under the awning, not even tipping his face to avoid the rain as he hailed a taxi.

"Wait!" she called instinctively. He paused before slowly opening the door.

"I'll be in touch, Gin," he said glancing over his shoulder, "Just don't…" he trailed off and then shook his head with a rueful smile.

She felt herself smiling back as he slid all the way in and closed the door. The cab slowly merged with traffic once again.

She watched him go reluctantly; her smile fading as she felt the weight of his revelation sink onto her shoulders. But even as the familiar fear crept around her, she felt something in her kick back into life. And she hated herself for it because she couldn't tell if it was the anxiety or his presence that brought that to her. And because it felt so damned good.

...

She had thought she saw him in a bar when she first arrived in America, and she had turned suddenly, knocking into someone and staring urgently across the crowd. But the blond hair she had mistaken for his was flaxen, not platinum, and she had turned dejected back to whomever she was with as she reminded herself that he wouldn't be in New York anyway.

Things like that had happened all the time. He was always the pale hair that flashed on her periphery. The grey eyes that met hers across a room, the voice calling her name in a crowd, but he was never there when she turned around.

Ginny had thought about writing or calling or just going to search for him after he left England. But what was there to say? 'One morning I woke up and realized that I may have feelings for you, I may have also gotten you sent away to Azkaban and made you suffer humiliations galore. Please come home and try to start a relationship with me while I make next to no money working for St. Mungo's and live in the worst part of town and, oh yeah, remain irrevocably fucked up'?

Somehow, Ginny just didn't think that was going to cut it. So she let his absence slide, and decided to put herself back together first. Which, much like everything, was far easier said than done. And she never really succeeded with that plan.

How many times had she imagined meeting him again? Seeing him in person brought it all back, slamming the past with the present, and making her wonder if the two could ever be reconciled in the future. There was worry, but there was also relief.

That safety, that surety, that feeling of rightness that she thought she had left behind in the courtyard where they had lingered in their last — or was it, perhaps, their first — moments of freedom was still there. The subtle strength she gained from his presence that she had spent so long looking for remained.

Yet she had watched him walk away again and she hadn't been able to get the image of him disappearing out of her mind. He was always the first to leave, always showing his back to her. Trying to show that he trusted her. Asking her to trust him.

Her finger hovered over the call button on her phone once again as she stared at the number he had called from. But she didn't press it; she had made up enough reasons not to. Yet she was still desperately hoping that she would see him again.

She probably shouldn't have been.

...

Ginny sank into her couch with the last of her wine and propped her feet up on the table in front of her. The work that she had been unable to focus on all week stared at her mockingly. She kicked the case files off of the table and drained her glass. The dry red stuck in her throat, burning unpleasantly. She set the empty glass down and glared at it before reaching for the bottle of bourbon that she and Pansy had been drinking the week prior. It was still empty. She glared at it too, willing it to refill, but nothing happened.

With a sigh, she let it fall back onto the couch beside her and reached for her television remote. There was nothing on. She dropped that too, next to the bottle, and then went for her wand.

She checked her wards first; she had taken to doing it every time she picked up her wand since she had spoken to Draco. Once it was clear that they were stable, she pointed it at her T.V. She levitated a DVD box, opened it with trouble, and then put the DVD into the DVD player. It took almost five minutes, and she was glowering by the time the movie had started.

She could have gotten up and done the same thing much faster. But even now, she couldn't force herself off the couch.

Even as the opening credits began to roll, she couldn't really focus. Instead her eyes darted around her apartment. Still so bare, as if she had forgotten that living included stuff, and yet it was cluttered. Empty cigarette packs, empty bottles of liquor, empty take away cartons. She had never been a neat freak, but she had also never lived in squalor, either. Her nose wrinkled at the site of her flat so dirty.

But even as she stared at the mess, she couldn't be bothered to clean. All around, her weariness followed. It was the dreams and the sinking of fall into winter. It was a rainy London and it was a confusing scene to come back to.

Draco had tracked her down. Harry had told her it wasn't her fault. Ron had grown wise. Pansy offered to pretend they were nineteen again. For some reason all of those left her stomach turning uneasily. She hadn't really wanted them all to change, despite the fact that she hadn't wanted time to stop.

A long time ago she had grown used to the uneasiness she felt now, but it still seemed foreign to her. A new sort of restlessness.

She checked the wards again. Nothing.

How did Lestrange know that it had been her, she wondered as the images on the T.V. flashed vividly. Of all knowledge, that should have been the one thing that he wouldn't find out. She remembered the angry face of Rodolphus Lestrange as he had been sentenced to life in Azkaban, contorted with rage and restlessness. Why hadn't _he_ been broken?

All Death Eaters should have been given the kiss immediately, she thought angrily.

But then she sighed, shaking her head. Draco would have gotten it too.

Draco. She had no idea what to make of him now. Waiting? What were they waiting for?

Her mind slowly traveled in circles, moving from one unsettling thought to another. But Harry's comment stuck out in her mind. She really hadn't changed at all, had she? She still felt impotent, that much was true.

And what of this Draco? This mixture of new and old that swarmed around her mind constantly. This person that she had never forgotten, never really tried to forget. She tried to think about when she fell in love with him, because it was so obvious that she had — even to her. Even she could admit it, had admitted it, several times over, for several years. _Waiting_. Oh yes, she was waiting.

For the storm to pass.

Her palm burned fiercely, and she dropped the wand she had forgotten she was holding onto. She had saved at least one person, she thought sadly, leaning over to rest her head on the armrest.

When she was younger, she had heard Bill say something to her father, something that always stuck with her. 'Act rather than react.'

She had always liked the sound of that; it was very Gryffindor. But she had never lived up to it. She had never managed to be anything but responsive, waiting. She sighed and sank further into the couch, stretching out her legs.

The movie continued to play, and she stared at the screen unwillingly as she slid into what should have been, but wasn't, a warm dream. The rain fell softly on the other side of her flat door, peaceful pattering.

...

_Ginny rested her head on Molly's shoulder and the two settled into the embrace, watching the fire flicker in the darkened room. "Do you think dreams come true?" Ginny asked._

_Molly stroked her hair and answered in a voice that wasn't her own, "I think that they can, but mostly we are unlucky if they just jump out at us from nowhere."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"I mean," she said with a sigh, shifting underneath Ginny, "Say you win the lottery, sure you may have dreamed you would, but it just happened. You didn't work for it or expect it. Dreams should function more like goals, like things that you can work for."_

_Ginny sighed. "What's the purpose of dreaming then, if all we dream about is the impossible?" _

_Silence settled over them, unruffled and profound. Ginny had her whole life in front of her, and Molly was leading a satisfied one with so many children and so much happiness, despite the bitter twinge. _

_"Dreams help you to know yourself," Molly said after a long moment, her voice shifting again. "Dreaming is important, an escape, a plan, something to motivate you. But dreams are also like a drug. You can't let them overtake you–can't let them become more important than reality. You can't hold onto a dream for so long that you forget that now you are someone different and might want something else."_

_Ginny felt so old then, even though she was still so young. Her eyes slid closed as she sank into the warmth of the moment. "I love you."_

_Her mother kissed the top of her head. "I love you too. Now someone's calling you."_

_Ginny raised her head; Charlie was standing there with a smile. "You have to stop dreaming, Gin."_

...

Ginny pulled herself from sleep with the knocking on her door. The television was casting blue light onto the floor, lighting the room with an ethereal glow.

"Gin?" someone called from outside, "I know you're in there."

She was groggily wiping the sleep from her eyes as the lock clicked open. She jumped, then tripped, still tipsy, and fell onto the floor. Thankfully, her wand still sat there and she grabbed it, pointing it directly at the figure who stepped inside.

"Draco?"

He sighed in relief. "Good. You're okay."

She raised her eyebrows at him, "Why wouldn't I be?"

He closed the door and then locked it behind him. "Your wards are for shit."

She frowned at him, slowly pulling herself up with difficulty. "Thanks," she said drily.

But he wasn't listening; instead he was waving his wand about in funny motions and muttering to himself. She took the moment to stare at his face, still fighting to place the difference.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, gathering the papers she had scattered earlier.

"Fixing your wards," he said shortly.

"I can see that. Why did you come?"

"Lestrange has been sighted in North London. The rumors are flying around out of control, but at least the Ministry is finally doing something."

"So you came all the way here because he's been sighted across the city. Thank you, Draco, but my wards were fine," she said icily. She didn't know why she was so angry.

"Just shut up, Gin. Obviously they need fixing or I wouldn't have been able to get in."

"You got in because I don't think of you as dangerous."

A shadow crossed his face as he turned to smile at her. "Your mistake."

She rolled her eyes at him and walked to the kitchen. There had to be more alcohol in here. She found an unopened bottle of vodka in the freezer that she thought she might have gotten as a house-warming gift. She took it with her back into the living room and sat down on the couch.

"Drink?"

He shook his head. "I don't drink Muggle liquor. It gives me horrible hangovers."

He seemed to be finishing up, and she watched as he focused once more on the task. She poured him a glass anyway and drank hers in one gulp. She poured another and pulled her feet up under her, swirling the clear liquid in steady circles. She drank too much, she thought, putting the second one back.

But he wasn't supposed to be here, here in her home. He didn't fit in this place. He was too tall, too pale, too right. He shot her a smirk when he finished and she reached out a toe to nudge the glass toward him. "Suck it up."

He sighed and picked up the glass and took it down. Then he sat on the far end of the couch. "That tastes horrible."

She shrugged. "You get used to it."

"Have you told you family yet?" he asked as she set down her empty glass and reached for the bottle.

"What? That I drink too much?"

Her head felt a little fuzzy, warm, despite the iciness of her fingertips. She felt settled now, her mother's embrace like a wonderful memory and the new wards closing in on her. They felt solid, more solid than the walls around her.

"No," he said impatiently, though she could hear the smile in his voice. "That a deranged mass-murdered is after you."

"Oh," Ginny said, pouring more vodka into both glasses. "No."

"You should tell them soon, or at least your brothers. One of them works for the Ministry, right?"

"Percy," Ginny said slowly.

Draco made a face, though she couldn't tell if it was from the liquor or her brother's name.

"You should have an Auror posted here and maybe one to follow you. It's important that you at least have a modicum of protection."

She giggled. "Modicum is a funny word."

He glanced at her and rolled his eyes. "You don't seem to be taking this seriously."

She went to drink the vodka in her glass, but it was empty. She stared at it curiously. "I think," she said slowly, "that it has been too long since I drank vodka."

"I seriously doubt that," he responded, and Ginny flinched inwardly. She knew that the flat was a mess, and she cast her eyes around, searching, for reasons that only person under the influence would understand, for signs of an empty bottle of vodka. There were none, and she sighted victoriously.

"What is it going to take to get you to take this seriously?"

She shrugged and set the glass down on the table. It clattered against the wooden surface, and she found herself staring at it again.

She stretched out on the couch, turning to rest her head on Draco's thigh. He stared down at her, looking slightly desperate and very confused, before he sighed.

"You aren't going to be sick, are you?"

"Probably not," she said with a yawn, letting her eyes close, "Though I was drinking red wine. What are you doing here, Draco?" she asked.

"Wasting my time, apparently," he said in obvious irritation. But his hands were gentle as he brushed Ginny's hair away from her face.

"Do you think he's really after me?"

"Without a doubt."

"How do you know?"

"I was a Death Eater, Gin, remember?"

The liquor made her head feel heavy, as if she body was sinking quickly downwards. But his leg was solid beneath her. She slid her frozen hands around his thigh and felt him tense.

"No, I forgot," she said, yawning again; sleep made her mind feel fuzzy. When was the last time she had truly slept well? A flash of her lying in bed with Mark appeared and disappeared in her mind. She frowned. "I remember everything else though. The courtyard and the stairs and why didn't you let me see you?"

He sighed, his hands stilling in her hair. She felt him swallow against her, the last of his vodka. "You were the only one who ever saw me, Gin."

And with that she fell asleep, the vodka chasing away all dreams.

...

When she had woken up the next morning, Draco had been gone and she had been in bed. She vaguely remembered him waking her up and pushing her towards her bedroom, but she couldn't remember very much of what had been said after the second drink.

But his scent still lingered on the couch a week later, almost as comforting than the wards he had replaced hers with.

She sat silently that day, staring at the walls in her living room as the sun sank slowly. Her piles of work sat rearranged and mostly finished on her coffee table when she reached for her journal. She liked this journal, it was worn and old and very well used. She had picked it up in Hogsmeade after the first time she had woken up with an incredibly hungover Harry. It was magical and had all sorts of enchantments on it, but the only one she ever used was the endless pages.

Apparently, though, she realized, flipping it open to the last page she had written on, even endless enchantments wear off. There were only three pages left to write on, and she frowned. It would be strange to search for a new journal, after owning this one for over four years. She bent the pages in hand and then slowly let them slide from her fingers like a flipbook. Despite the narrowness of the spine, the pages sped by for ages; she never tired of that sound. Her hands paused on a random page and she skimmed, trying to determine when she had written it.

_When you spend so much time at war, you forget what it's like to live with no clear enemy. And when I stop to think about it, it's really not so surprising that the only people I know handling the end of the war well are Draco and Pansy. They've always been battling from both sides, never able to see the abstracts of good and evil clearly. Since the beginning they have been forced to constantly question everything, never getting to see in anything other than different shades of grey._

_Sometimes I pity them because they missed out on the easily understood aspects of right and wrong, but mostly I just envy the way they grew up forced to see the difficulties of never knowing who and what to fight. It enabled them to be grateful for the end of the war; finally they were allowed a reprieve. But for me, for Ron, Harry, Hermione, and just about everyone else righteous enough to believe that they were firmly on the side of the good or the right, the end of the war has left us in nothing but constant struggle. What, I ask myself again and again, are we to do now?_

_What am I supposed to do when my fingers still rest unconsciously on my wand in my pocket? When I can't sit with my back to a door? When I get jumpy and claustrophobic and can't stand alone in a crowd? _

_What am I supposed to do now, when there is so much evil left in the world, but without an obvious label? What are we supposed to be fighting now?_

_And the most difficult thing about it is that I already know the answer. The only thing we can do, could ever do, is fight the evil within ourselves. But how does that change anything?_

_I'm lucky, though, in the long run. I stop sometimes during the day and ponder this question, or occasionally, when I wake up after drinking too much, I spend the day in bed, hiding from it; but it only crops up occasionally, haunting me momentarily, and then fading again. I am not constantly consumed by it like some. Like Harry._

Ginny sighed, tracing the last words on the page. She remembered writing this, the cold pane of glass that she had rested her forehead against as the warm summer sun streaked through the window. It had been just before her nineteenth birthday, and she had been living in London.

Of course, at the time, the only news she had had of Draco had been from the business section of the newspaper. And the only knowledge she had had of Pansy had been their drunken conversations while darting in and out of crowds clad in black amidst the club scene.

She allowed herself a moment to resent that she hadn't changed much since then, before she set the journal down, suddenly tired. He still smelled the same, she thought as she lay down.

She was just drifting off when her phone buzzed on the table, the sound of it vibrating against the table far more jarring than the ring itself. She sat up and opened it. "Hello?"

"Hey, Gin!" a voice shouted over the din she could hear in the background.

She smiled. "Hey, Ri, what's up?"

"A group of us are going out to dinner in Notting Hill, near you. Want to join us?" she asked, her voice hopeful.

Ginny frowned at the table, listening to the laughter she heard on the other end. "I'd love to," she said finally, "When?"

"Say about an hour? We can meet you at yours — we're coming from the lighting festival, of course."

Ginny blinked; was it that time of year already? "Sounds perfect," she said before saying goodbye and standing. She stretched feebly and then stumbled on her sleepy legs to the shower.

In forty-five minutes her bell rang, and she met her eyes in the mirror, surprisingly happy with her appearance.

...

Ginny felt herself laughing along with Ri and her friends even as she realized that she didn't belong. It wasn't that they were Muggles, nor was it that they were younger, though only slightly; it was just that she didn't quite fit in this crowd. She curled her lips upward as her body shook with chuckles and stared around the table.

There it was. Their smiles were so free. She knocked her wine glass against the man's next to her when he said something she agreed with. Their shoulders were so relaxed. She laughed heartily at their jokes. Their eyes were so open. She fiercely debated their politics. But mostly, she just waited. She waited for the table, then the drinks, then the food, then the check. When it came time to go, she didn't want to, but she was more than ready.

She kissed Ri on each cheek, and then hugged a few her new friends, before they all stepped into the cold night. She lingered in front of the restaurant, waving goodbye to them all before lighting a cigarette and pulling the collar of her jacket up.

Ginny took two steps into the night when she felt a hand wrap around her wrist. She gasped and turned coming face to face with a very angry Draco. His blonde hair caught in the yellow lights of the Muggle street and the snow was slowly gathering across his shoulders.

She took a terrified step back, snapping back into reality like a rubber band. "You have got to stop doing that! And–And were you _following_ me?"

"You really don't listen to anyone do you?" he said fiercely, dropping her wrist and taking a step towards her.

"What do you mean?" she asked, swallowed by his body heat and caught between the desire to lean forward and lean backwards at the same time.

"You know that he's after you! I warned you! And yet you insist on walking around in the middle of the night like some idiot. In a Muggle area, no less."

He took another step, the anger in his eyes even more pronounced when he was centimeters from her.

"Oh, come on, Draco, you can't be serious!"

"He knows it was you, you careless bint. Which makes it highly probable that he's after you. And since you haven't told your family, there's no extra protection."

Ginny shivered, a gust of wind sending chills up her spine. "It's cold, Draco. I'm going home."

She turned away into the wind and got all of three steps before he stopped her again, this time with a hand on her shoulder.

"You're still not listening."

His scarf would around her neck, washing her with his heat and his smell, spicy, simple, human. She turned to look up at him. He looked lost, desperate now, and not at all angry. She wondered if maybe she had just spent too many years misreading his emotions.

"You need to protect yourself."

"Why?"

"Because I know him!" Draco said loudly, not quite a shout and not quite broken. He shook his head, perhaps in denial, and stared down at her. "He's vicious, he's angry, and you took something of his. He's coming and he's coming for you."

Ginny stared at him sadly and rested her hand on his arm, right above the mark she knew lingered on pale skin. "That's not what I meant. I meant, why do you care about me protecting myself?"

He let out one short, soundless laugh, the air escaping his lips incredulously, before he let his head fall back. Puffs of white clouds left his lips, turning yellow in the light. "Ginevra, now is not the time to play those games. You just have to keep yourself safe, okay? And stay aware, the Ministry won't even come close to him before he plays his hand." He looked back down at her slowly, sadness and guilt in his eyes.

"I'm not playing games," she said, weighted by his guilt before something in her clicked. His eyes met hers, and they both must have looked so sad. Ginny wished she could step back, stand away, stare at the two of them. The unsaid words that hovered between them, the unsung emotions, and the remorse filled the air with a tension so thick she could taste it.

"You still feel guilty," she said sadly, finally stepping back. "That's what this is about."

He blinked at her, "What?"

"That night," she said, tears coming to her eyes with a suddenness that surprised her, "I did what I had to and you blamed yourself. I thought you were angry about Azkaban, but this– this is even worse."

She unwound the scarf from her neck as she spoke, ignoring the emotions that slowly crossed his face, before she handed it back to him and stepped away. "Thank you, Draco, but this is not a burden I care to share with you. Good night."

And this time, when she stepped away, Draco didn't stop her. The tears stuck in her eyes as she turned the corner and hailed a cab.

But she was left with that image of him before she turned away. The image of a man squeezed of all possible responses, incomprehensibly confused.

...

When she dreamed that night, it was the worst of her nightmares. Because it was not one that had grown familiar with constant repetition. And it left her with nothing but an earthshaking feeling of loss and of regret.

_She is standing alone, that's the first thing she notices. She is in her bedroom at the Burrow, the one with the pink walls, which she had begged for and then hated three weeks later, and the stuffed toys and the stacks and stacks of second hand novels. It seems empty now, though, cluttered, yet abandoned. And so clean; it had never been so clean before. _

_Ginny turns when the door opens and Draco steps in. "I came, just like you asked."_

_She nods, but doesn't understand her own actions as she walks to her trunk and opens it. Draco kneels on the floor in front of it; she joins him. _

_She looks over and he blinks, "What are you waiting for?" _

_Her voice is not normal. "You, of course."_

"_Well, I'm ready."_

"_You always are."_

_He shakes his head once, "Only for you."_

_She reaches out with one hand and clutches his arm and then with the other, touches the smooth surface of the Pensive. _

_They tumble onto the grass next to one another, the warmth enveloping them in its gentle arms. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly blue sky. The sun casts comforting rays over the Hogwarts grounds, the grass greener than it ever had been before, and there was no memorial to mar the emptiness of the green. _

"_There's just one thing that I regret, something from long ago," she whispers._

"_Only one?" His eyes darkened, "I can't believe that."_

_In her dream she has to think. But she nods still. "Only one."_

_He rolls on top of her, bracing himself over her. His hair dangles, a silver curtain, and he meets her eyes, "Why did you bring me here?"_

"_Because I never had the chance before." _

_He doesn't respond to that, just stares at her until she finally closes her eyes and sinks into the summer warmth. She remembers this day, the day right at the end of her fourth year. When the rain hadn't existed for a full week. When there was nothing but the sun and the relief at the end of term. _

_His absence is felt, though his movements silent, and she opens her eyes. She slowly stands, bettering her view of the lake which sparkles with a strange iridescence. _

"_I remember this day," Draco says softly, and she turns to look at him. "I'm inside right now, taking the O.W.L.'s."_

"_No your not." His eyebrow raises. "You're right here, standing next to me, looking at the lake."_

_He sighs. "Gin…"_

"_No. Don't. Right now. That's what I want. I want a now, not a then." A now that should have been a then, she whispers to herself._

_But he has not heard her and she turns towards him, searching his silent face. His eyes have fallen shut, turned towards the sun, and her breath catches in her throat. He is too different for this, she realizes. This hadn't happened then and couldn't happen now. Nothing about the scenery changes; the sun is warm, the sky is blue, the grass is green. But she is drowning. Sucked of life and breath and hope._

_A breeze tickles her face, and she feels them–the tears–spilling over her cheeks. Time doesn't stop. _

_You can't live in the past._

_Act. _

"_Let's go back," she says softly, torn open. _

_When she opens her eyes, he is standing in front of her. "You know we can't."_

_Her body wracks with a single sob. "I meant back–"_

"_I know what you meant."_

_And then he reaches for her, and the clouds circle the sun, and the sky cracks with anger, and the wind whistles with loss. She cries out and there is no past and she is tumbling from the Pensive, on to her floor in her old bedroom. And she is alone. _

And when she woke, she woke up silently screaming — her mouth twisted and gaping. A messy mix of sobs and shouts all silent. The silence unbroken as if someone had stolen her ears. She didn't settle down until she felt the wards, ever responsive, closing in around her, trying to irradiate the threat; and she was suffocating. All of her was damp, sweat and tears mingling together in an unnatural saltiness. She had to remind herself that she was not mute, but no words popped into her mind to say.

And when the invisible forces slowly receded, she felt even emptier. The dream slowly faded from her memories and she was left with nothing but that feeling, and she felt as if she was still there, trapped. And lost.

Reluctantly, she fell back asleep in the early morning light, and the feeling faded; but the dream did not leave her unconscious mind.

...

Ginny set out, with Neville beside her, into Diagon Alley. It was Sunday, over a week since she had seen Draco, and she was calmer than she thought she would be.

It was sunny that day, the first clear day since it had started snowing and refused to stop. She was glad not to be in a Muggle area, so she could charm her feet and trousers not to get wet. She looped her arm silently through Neville's and leaned her face against his shoulder as they made their way towards Fortescue's.

"Are you sure it's not too cold for ice cream?" Neville asked as the two slowly wandered from the more residential area towards the shops.

"It's never too cold for that hand-churned mint chocolate-chip," she responded with a cheeky smile. "Besides, your warming charms are some of the best I've ever felt."

She buried her nose into her scarf and carefully sidestepped a rather large puddle. "How's everything with you, anyway?" she asked, thrown off by the silence. "We haven't spoken in a while."

"Not since you got back from Scotland," he said with a smile, "I imagine to you it feels like a lifetime."

Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced a nod. "Yes."

"Pansy told me you were going," he said with an unconscious happy smile, "I didn't think you would."

She groaned incomprehensibly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I really didn't want to."

She felt his chuckle against her and smiled with the gaps of easy silence. "Did you see Harry?"

Ginny closed her eyes momentarily and sighed. "Yeah. He looks good."

Neville made a noncommittal noise, his eyes shifting away. "I guess he would. A lot happened after you left."

"What do you mean?"

He was silent for a long moment. "You probably don't know anything about it; we Brits are good at keeping these things hushed up. But he had a serious break about three months after you left, and then he ended up in St. Mungo's for a few weeks."

Ginny felt her stomach drop suddenly, the cold permeating in a way it hadn't before. "What?"

Neville shrugged, obviously uncomfortable. "He was only there for a little while, but apparently he had been having pretty… fucked up dreams. When he left, he was like a different person. I don't know all that much about it, but I think he just needed to really slam face first into rock bottom before he could pick himself up."

Ginny sighted softly, leaning into Neville's warmth again. "I never knew."

"No one wanted to tell you. I think your family, well, Ron, at least, was afraid that you'd come running back because of it. Neither of you needed that."

Ginny smiled, despite herself. "That's true."

"Things after that just changed. Though he only recently started working again."

Ginny pulled Neville to a stop in front of Gladrags. Their Christmas clothing was on display; all bright reds and greens surrounded by magically enchanted floating snow. "That's pretty," she said, desperately needing to change the topic.

"Really?" Neville said skeptically. "I think it looks much more suited to Pansy than you, dear."

Ginny's eyes focused on the short red velvet skirt with golden embroidery and hid her grimace. He was right. "How are you and Pansy, anyway?"

"Ah," he said slowly. She glanced up to see that he was thinking hard for the right answer. "I have no idea. She has her moments of happiness, but then sometimes she gets… irrational."

Ginny raised her eyebrows, "And how do you feel?"

"Mostly I just worry about her. I mean, how else is there to put it, when it's good, it's amazingly good. When it's not, it's just not."

"I see you haven't lost your skill with words," she said with a smirk.

They separated again to step around a massive puddle, and he shot her an amused smile. "I just… never know with her. She's harder to read than Dostoevsky."

"Still slaving away over those Existential theorists?" she asked amusedly, grabbing his arm again and trying to shrink her body to avoid the growing crowd.

"Nah, gave that up when I figured out that they never say anything I didn't learn years ago."

"Well, give me an example," Ginny said, glancing through the window of the apothecary. She would need to stop in there. After the ice cream, she decided.

"Well, like, in iThe Outsider/i we meet this–"

"I meant," Ginny interrupted drily, "Pansy's irrationality."

Neville chuckled. "That does make a bit more sense." He paused and tilted his face upwards for a moment. "Well, just last week, she stayed over after some of the most mind-blowing sex I've ever had — you have no idea what sort of wickedness she enj–"

"Too much, Neville," Ginny said with a faked horrified look.

He shot her another amused smile. "Anyway, I pass out, and when I wake up, she's crying. And not just small tears, the sort of crying that sounds like it was forcibly ripped from her lungs."

Ginny frowned softly, finally spotting the door to Fortescue's and smiling at the empty patio. The tables were covered in snow and ice and it looked like the inside was empty as well — far different than the rest of Diagon Alley. She bit back a smile; she had made the right choice.

"I tried to hold her," Neville continued after a moment, "But she just pushed me away. Kept muttering things, like 'why is it better'. I didn't really catch much, but I'm sure I shouldn't feel flattered."

Neville held the door open for her, and the rush of heat was so welcome, she sighed.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much, Nevs," she said, bouncing towards the counter and staring into the case at the ice cream within. She could feel the raw anticipation building up inside her as a wide grin spread across her face. It had been way too long. "Pansy has all sorts of problems that you and I will never understand. It's hard not to forget what she lost in the war, because she seems so natural about it, but she lost a huge part of herself."

"Hmm," was his only response. She glanced over to find him staring into the case expectantly as well. He glanced over and met her eyes. She smiled broadly. He shook his head at her and chuckled.

"What are you getting?"

He glanced up at the patron who was just stepping out from the room beyond the counter and staring at them as if they were insane. It only made Ginny's smile widen. "May I have a scoop of the chocolate covered cherry?"

The man smiled and wiped his hands while Ginny made a face. "Yuck."

Neville chuckled at her, "You never change."

"Why bother, I say," she responded, sniffing haughtily. "Can I have one of the coffee and one of the mint chocolate-chip?"

"Glad to see you two appreciate that it's never too cold for ice cream," he said with a smile.

Ginny grinned back widely, "Never."

She took her ice cream and handed over enough sickles to cover both cones before pulling Neville back from the counter. He was frowning into his ice cream.

"That's not a good look for you, dear."

"You're forgetting that I lost a part of myself in the war as well."

Ginny sighed, looking at the ice cream sadly. "No, I haven't. It's just that… well, with Pansy, there's no way you can ever understand." He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up her hand. "It's not that you couldn't, it's just that she'll never let you. No matter what the two of you have in common, no matter how well you understand her, she will never fully allow you to share her feelings. She's just not that way. She would never accept it."

He sighed, and Ginny finally attacked the ice cream, tasting the mint first and closing her eyes in the simple pleasure. It was so sweet, with that bite that made her lips tingle. Her mouth curled up in a smile before she slowly opened her eyes.

Neville was staring at her and obviously fighting the desire to outright laugh at her expression.

She pouted. "Come on, don't laugh. It's been a long time since I've had anything this good."

He rolled his eyes at her. "You're adorable."

"I know," she responded cheekily, allowing the two of them to fall into silence as they ate.

After she finished most of the mint and the coffee taste started to blend, she finally spoke again, unable to stand the look on his face. "It's not that you should stop trying," she said softly, and he looked over at her, too sad. "It's just that it will take time. Time and effort."

"I know," he said, "And I wont. I know what she's fighting against, and I can't not be there for her."

"What's she fighting against?" Ginny asked, more curious than she had any right to be.

"Her desire not to fall in love again," Neville said simply, taking a large bit from the cone.

Ginny began to plow through the coffee with a smirk. "That sure that she's falling in love with you?"

"Of course," he said, puffing out his chest pompously, "How could she not, faced with such a towering specimen of manliness, after all?"

Ginny dissolved into helpless giggles. "Says the man who owns a flower shop!"

"Hey!" he responded indignantly, kicking her under the table, "How many times do I have to tell you I sell more than flowers?"

She smiled at him and kicked him back. "Obviously, at least once more."

He smiled back, and she was glad to see that the fear was gone from his eyes. "She's worth it, you know?" she said softly, reaching the cone.

"Yeah, I know," he responded.

She met his eyes across the table and sighed. "You're hopeless."

"And so are you," he countered with a pointed look.

She shrugged and stood, unwilling to have _that_ conversation. "You ready?"

He nodded and she tossed her cone into the bin as they left the shop. The cold hit them again and she started toward Flourish and Blott's across the street.

"So are you going to tell me about the guy that has you so preoccupied," he asked, not looking at her as he adjusted his jacket. Inwardly, she groaned.

He was two steps behind her, when she looked back to smirk at him, and Ginny had never been more grateful for anything. Because when the attack came, it came from ahead and to the left.

She felt the slicing spell hit her directly in the chest, though she didn't fully register the pain as the blood spurted out of her chest. She looked down in shock, wondering if she would have noticed at all if it hadn't splattered warmly against her chin.

The world spun and the colors mixed and everything turned blue. Neville was shouting. A woman screamed. The bright red seeped from her skin into the snow, mixing with the grimy white. When had she fallen to the ground?

Her fingers reached up to touch her chest and she pulled them away, damp and red. Neville's face appeared above her.

"Gin?" he said. She met his eyes, eyes like liquid amber, not flecked at all, just fluid, in circles. She stared at them. "GIN!"

Her hand fell back over her chest and she could feel her heart beating, the blood coming in irregular spurts. Why was there no pain? It felt wrong. Objectively, Ginny knew that she had been in danger. She knew that these are the attacks that you never expect. But the sun was shining on her face, and if she hadn't been concentrating so much on Neville's tight expression as he applied pressure to her chest, she knew she would have felt the warmth.

Why hadn't she told him that there was ice cream at the corner of his mouth?

He pulled her hand away from her chest, and though she tried to resist, it fell away easily. He let loose a stream of cursing and put his wand against her body.

People were still screaming. She wanted them to shut up. 'What good will it do?' she tried to shout. Her voice was dead in her throat. The cloudless sky hovered above her and she tried to focus on it, but it was just endless, relentless blue.

Her last thought was probably, iWhy isn't it raining?/i

Because that is what she remembers: the rain.

_It was raining. It had rained a lot that year, a lot all the time, but somehow, that's what stands out the most in her mind. The rain. It had lessened to a mere drizzle, slicking surfaces and making the stone of the castle turn black. It was too heavy to call it humidity and too soft to wash away the dirt and blood that covered everyone and everything. Ginny stood at the top of the stairs, staring out at the Quidditch Pitch where a fierce battle, illuminated by the flashes of light, was dying down. _

_It seemed utterly surreal, so much removed from the people in the hospital wing that she had just abandoned. Staring out into the black, though, made her forget why she left at all. Suddenly, she felt small. She could tell that things were coming to an end and on the downslide from true horror. There was nothing left that she could do._

_In the hospital wing, she had felt surrounded, weak and helpless and truly and utterly lost. After Charlie, she had kept her eyes out for the people that she knew, but endless faces passed, unrecognized in the confusion. And after what felt like days, she had left her post, running determinedly to the scene; she wanted to fight, wanted to help. But standing there, the rain dampening her filthy, bloody clothing, she watched as the people that she loved fought back the evil across the Hogwarts grounds. _

_And then she heard her name. Wrenching her face away from the field, she saw Draco at the bottom of the steps. _

_She called out to him, rushing down, as he started up. "Are you alright?" she had asked, but his answer was lost on the wind. _

_And then there was a crash, louder than the loudest of thunder, shaking everything to its very foundations. Her teeth rattled in her mouth and her bones shook in her body. In absolute shock, she stopped to stare at the field, listening to the unholy sounds coming from pitch. _

_And the silence that followed was absolutely unnatural. Quiet took over, settling on her shoulders, heavier than the noise. Eventually, her eyes found Draco's; he was only a few stairs away now. There was a cut across his cheekbone and the blood had been smeared across his face. He was dirtier than even she, and for a moment they just stared. _

_And then a figure appeared, leaping towards Draco with an angry scream. Ginny could hear the cry on the wind, could see the body floating through the air down the stairs. The person must have come from behind her, she thought idly, as she watched, strangely frozen. And then the assailant was struck down in a flash of green light, and Ginny fell forward, bonelessly. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Draco leap forward and then — nothing. _

_She came to seconds later — in Draco's arms — the horrible shriek 'Betrayer' still hovering in the air and the green light dancing across her vision. Aurors were running towards them, caught in slow motion, and there was a body on the stairs beneath her and Draco. Her wand burned in her hand, scorching, aching pain, and he was staring at her with an unreadable look as he brushed her fringe from her face. "You're okay." _

"_You're okay," he murmured into her hair. "You're okay."_

_Ginny was shaking; she felt weaker than she ever had before, and she felt ...broken. _

_In a strange sort of slow motion, the Aurors arrived, too late, and pulled Draco away from her, roughly shackling his hands behind his back. But his eyes never left hers. "It's over," he said._

_She stood shakily, nodding, "Over." He glanced at her once more, something totally foreign in his eyes. Something like an apology, like real, horrible, haunting regret._

_One of the Aurors was reaching for her, "Are you okay? Did he attack you?" Ginny just shrugged, watching as they started to haul him off, back towards the field. _

"_Draco," she called, waiting for him to turn. "I'm okay."_

_He smiled at her. "So am I."_

_She watched him disappear down towards the pitch, where she assumed her would be checked for wounds and either sent to Azkaban or St. Mungo's. She wondered why she wasn't more worried for him. _

_But then she realized that she couldn't feel anything at all, except for the pain in her palm. Finally, she let go of her wand, wincing at the searing heat that had blistered her hand._

_The body still remained, practically forgotten, the Death Eater mask sliding off and the rain water soaking its robes slowly. The face was neither male nor female, an indiscernible being that was just a sack of muscle and bone now. Just nothing now. The eyes were closed and the jaw slacked. Ginny sat there, waiting, as she watched the eye sockets slowly fill with the falling water._

* * *

__A/N: It must be noted that the dream sequence in the beginning of this chapter (and the chapter title itself) were inspired by T.S. Eliot's 'The Wasteland'. There are a lot of T.S. references in this story as a whole — he's the guy I always go to when I need a little inspiration!

Thanks for reading, everyone, and a special thanks to those who reviewed! You guys are great! xxx


	5. Chapter 5: Marionette

Chapter 5: Marionette

* * *

_The fragile keep secrets, gathered in pockets,  
__and they'll sell them for nothing–a cheap watch or locket  
__that kind of gold washes off.  
__And the sad act like lepers, they stick to the shadows  
__and long to ring bells of warning to tell of their coming  
__so that the pure can shut their doors.  
__And the desperate are water. They will run down forever  
__as they soak into silence mend up together,  
__in a dark and distant, dark and distant place.  
__So don't leave me here with only mirrors watching me.  
__This house it holds nothing but the memories.  
__And the moon it leaves silver but never sleep.  
__And then the silver turns to grey.  
_ -Bright Eyes, Arienette

* * *

_Ginny's eyes opened with a start, taking in the low, smooth ceiling of her New York apartment. Her heart hammered, hard and inexplicably fast against her ribcage, as she looked around. There was a half empty glass of bourbon glistening temptingly on the nightstand. She hauled herself from bed, limbs unsteady and ran to her front door to throw it open and stare out into the silent hall as the sinking sun turned the hardwood floor golden. _

_Down the stairs and into the lobby, she sprinted. How did she get here? _

_She stumbled out into midtown to take in the stillness. And then she stopped and stared. There were hundreds of policemen lining the street, at intervals of less than a meter. They stretched down into the distance standing absolutely still and straight backed, reminding her of marionettes poised and ready for movement. Unnatural. _

_The silken material of her nightgown floated around her legs unpleasantly as she hurried between two of the officers and made it out into the center of the road. It was silent; they did not move. Not even to look at her. Toy army men on display._

_There were no cars; the sun was setting. The wind rushed by her, and she ran with it. Down the Manhattan street to nowhere. _

_The police were everywhere, unmoving and unconcerned, and still she ran. There was something chasing her now, she could feel it, nipping the back of her heels. _

_She stumbled to the ground, tangled in her own skirts, and cried out. _

_"Don't you feel safe?" a dark and oily voice whispered mockingly in her ear. _

_She shrieked and spun on hands and knees, but there was no one, no one except the lines of toy soldiers. She had heard that voice before — in another life of insecurities and dank classrooms. The men were expressionless, all staring. All silent. She screamed again, but no one moved. _

_Standing, she tried to run back the way she came, but there was nothing different in either direction. She spun around, whirling in circles, but nothing changed._

_And then she saw him: the scar that ran down his face, the crooked nose, the cheekbones that made him beautiful, and the eyes that made him fierce. Rodolphus Lestrange stared at her from the line of officers._

_He smiled, twisting his scarred face into a mangled mess._

_She cried out weakly and collapsed, her vision blurring as she forced herself not to look away. _

_His smile widened, a wicked, victorious grin. "You found me." He raised a long, antique musket and pointed it at her. The bayonet stretched and hovered above her sternum. She stared at it in horror. _

_The voice whispered in her ear again — Snape's — full of hatred, of intelligence. "Putting the devils in blue does not change their colors." _

_She tried to bat away the bayonet, but warm arms held hers in place. "Do not fight it — little girl." _

_Ginny's eyes met the stinging green ones of her captor, and they pulled her towards their own insanity. Bellatirx's grip tightened. _

_"You made me do it," Ginny whispered, the metal edge pressing against her ribs._

_The woman blinked and her eyes were once again black. "No," she hissed, "I just made it rain. It is the taste of the fruit that leads people to the forbidden."_

_Ginny's eyes slid closed as she made her decision and threw herself forward onto the bayonet. The arms released her and a voice cried out. _

_"Miss Weasley!" _

Ginny's eyes snapped open to meet a pair of very concerned brown ones. The woman wore a white cap that faded into the background of white. "I was dreaming," she whispered, her eyes closing again, the relief fading quickly into sleep.

...

When she opened her eyes again, it was hours later, and she found that she could once again focus her vision. The white sea still hovered all around her, but at least she could tell the difference between the white bandages and the white curtains and the white walls.

Someone cried out her name, and bright ginger hair broke up the whiteness before she shifted back into sleep.

It wasn't until three days after the attack, she learned later, that she fully regained consciousness, and even then it was unreliable and temporary.

A hand was clutching hers firmly and she stared at it in confusion. She didn't recognize the strong calloused fingers or the dirty fingernails. Slowly, she reached over and pried her fingers out of the stranger's grasp, untangling their grip.

"Oh, you're up," said Harry, and her eyes shot to his. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and she was momentarily shocked by the vibrancy of his green stare.

"Harry," she rasped, "What are you doing here?"

He smiled slowly. "You were attacked."

"I know."

"I came as soon as I heard."

"Ah," Ginny said, glancing about the small hospital room for the water she knew would be nearby. The hideous mauve pitcher was beside her bed, and her hands trembled as she reached for it. Harry immediately picked it up and quickly poured her a glass; he even stuck a straw into it. He handed it to her wordlessly. She tried not to glare at the water in her hands. "Thanks."

Ginny searched for something to say as she sipped the water through her straw. As the cool hit the back of her throat, the room snapped into focus. "Where's my family?"

"They've been in and out. Bill just left an hour or so ago." She could see the wavering uncertainty in his eyes as she stared at him with deliberate calm. At last he said, "Perhaps I should call them."

"Yes," Ginny said, her voice smoother now, and much colder. She hadn't meant for that, but she couldn't apologize. She licked her cracked lips carefully, and tried not to flinch.

He stood slowly and then abruptly left the room. Ginny let her head to fall back onto the pillow and gradually allowed herself to feel the pain gathered in her chest. It was burning, intense, and left her with a headache. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly, running through pain control exercises that forced her body to relax.

She was just drifting off again when the door opened. "Gin," Ron called, and she looked up into his worried blue eyes. "Are you okay?"

She smiled at him, reached for his hand. She needed to reassure him, and then she faded out.

...

"What? Lestrange attacked her?"

That was Ron's voice, Ginny realized through the haze.

"It would seem the most likely," a cool voice responded. Definitely Draco. That _bastard_.

"But why?" Hermione.

"It doesn't make any sense." Harry.

"I can't explain it to you."

"Why not?" Hermione asked over the angry responses of Harry and Ron.

"It's just not my place."

"How do you know that he was after her?" Was that Bill?

"He clearly targeted her."

"But how do you know it's him? It could have been anyone. How do _you_ know?"

Silence.

Ginny winced and then coughed. She opened her eyes and looked around the room at all the guilty faces. She met Draco's eyes and glared at him. "You. You leave."

He hesitated and everyone else seemed torn. "Now," she bit out.

He nodded, his eyes piercing hers. "I'm sorry," he said softly, reaching for the doorknob.

"What? That you couldn't be there to throw yourself in front of the curse?"

His hand paused, pulled back. His eyes flashed angrily as he looked at her. "That you were attacked at all."

Her glare intensified. "You're not still going on as if this is all your fault, are you?"

Ginny was intensely aware of the people in the room, their eyes darting between herself and Draco. Curious and confused. Just like she.

Draco's eyes stayed on hers, though. He didn't move. She could see his disbelief there. And his dismay.

She clenched her jaw, rage from nowhere bubbling in her chest, spilling out, checked only by the waves of pain that set into a steady buzz. White noise, white room, all so loud in its colorful silence. "Get out," she hissed, "And send someone in with lots and lots of morphine… or something."

Then he was gone, and Ginny was staring at the ceiling, her eyes filling with tears as the pain grew. She could feel the blood pulsing, welling up beneath her bandages, and she felt her body tensing.

She looked over at the small group remaining, and found Bill a little apart from the trio. "What was that about, Gin?" Harry asked, but she ignored him.

She smiled wanly at Bill. "Is Neville okay?"

He smiled back and approached the bed to take her hand, "He's fine. And you will be too. The curse is just…" he paused as if searching for the right word and finally admitted, "It's strange. It resists magical healing. But you're all stitched up the Muggle way for now."

"That's good," she said, letting her eyes slide closed. "Can you make the others go away for a bit? It's a little too crowded in here."

She felt Bill squeeze her hand sympathetically.

"Wait," she said softly, "Ron, will you stay?"

When she opened her eyes, he was grinning at her. "Like you even need to ask."

She smiled back, watching as Harry and Hermione left the room. Harry wouldn't meet her eyes, but Hermione shot her a relieved smile. The door opened again almost immediately, and a nurse came in. "Too much pain, dear?"

Ginny liked her warm smile. "Not too much," she said, "but a soothing charm might help. Not strong, though," she warned as the nurse approached the bed. "I don't want to pass out."

The nurse waved her wand over Ginny's chest, checking her vitals, and then the familiar comfort of the charm washed over her body, stealing all the tension. She sighed happily and turned to her brothers.

"Hey," she said, feeling almost like herself.

They both smiled back before pulling up chairs. Bill's long hair glimmered in the light as it fell in front of his face. She watched as he brushed it back with calloused hands. Such a familiar gesture. Her chest tightened slightly.

"Where's Mum?"

"Oh, the usual, after something like this," Ron said with a smirk. "Baking up a storm to prepare for your return. She sat with you the first two nights, but Dad made her go home. Too much pacing about and hand wringing, you know."

Ginny smiled fondly and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"Do you want to rest?" Bill asked worriedly, "We can come back later."

"No, stay, I'm fine really."

"Gin," Ron said tentatively, "Malfoy told us that it was Lestrange that attacked you. Why would he want to kill you? Do you have any idea?"

"Ah," Ginny said lightly, "That's a story."

"You don't have to tell us," Ron said quickly. Guiltily.

She was really sick of everyone else's guilt. She was the guilty one, after all. She was the one that had brought them to this–that had forced them to worry about her.

"I killed his wife," she said, surprised; it had been so easy to say it, after all.

"You… What?"

"I killed Bellatrix during the final battle. At the end." She smiled. Relief?

"Draco Malfoy killed Bellatrix," Bill said firmly, squeezing her shoulder. "He did it to save your life, remember? That's why he was released from Azkaban."

"Oh," Ginny said, frowning; the pain relief charms were sliding up over her — lightheaded relief. "Right. Well, no. It was the other way around."

"Are you serious…?" Ron asked. She heard his chair legs skid back suddenly, a nasty, grating sound. "That's _fraud_. You lied to get him off after _everything_? Everything he did?"

"What did he do?" she asked, trying to glare at Ron.

"He was a Death Eater!" Ron snapped. Ginny's glare intensified; her brother had been smiling just last month and calling him _Draco_.

"Not by choice," Ginny grated out. "And besides, it was Harry who got him off, I didn't have to testify or anything."

"Yeah, but–"

"Ron," Bill interrupted. "We should let her rest." His lips brushed her forehead. "We'll come again later."

She opened her eyes and suddenly reached out the grab Bill. They were leaving. "Wait," she said desperately, struggling to lift herself. His hand gently pushed her back against the bed. "This stays between us," she pleaded, meeting his sad eyes. "Please."

Bill nodded once, a small, enigmatic smile curling his lips upwards. "Of course, Ginny. Get some rest. You should be able to go home in a few days."

She smiled back at him, full of relief and the soothing charm, and let them leave. She didn't look at Ron on his way out.

...

Draco came by a few days later. When he arrived, Ginny was sitting up in bed, a book propped on her lap. She wasn't reading, though; she was trying to remember exactly what she had said over the past few days. It was all a long blur, the words shifting and running together, like posters on the street that had been rained on. The letters seemed longer but less meaningful.

Everyone had come to see her, even Pansy, who sniffed about with that nasty look on her face before setting down a vase of calla lilies. "I hate that hospital smell. It never goes away."

"It's the same in Muggle hospitals," Ginny said with a grateful smile. "It's the insulin."

"Insulin?"

"Yeah, even we use it to treat diabetes. Such a strange, lingering scent."

Fred and George had come and then had been banned from the premises after they accidentally lit her bed on fire. They had left with twin smirks, and she had been laughing long after their departure.

Neville had visited on his own, looking at her with a pained expression. She had slapped his arm and told him to suck it up. She had been the one injured after all. But she had still felt so guilty. What if it had been him instead?

Her mother had hugged her so hard, Ginny was afraid she had ripped her sutures, but it felt so good to be back in that embrace. It was one of the few things a person didn't grow out of.

But she wasn't really thinking about any of that. When Draco walked into the room, she was thinking about the look in her father's eyes as she explained to him why Rodolphus had come to kill her.

Draco didn't say anything, just sat in the chair by the bed and leaned forward, propping his elbows up on the mattress. He almost reminded her of Fred in that moment, but Draco's smirk wasn't playful, it was habitual; his eyes were far too serious.

Ginny smiled at him apologetically. "I'm sorry about kicking you out."

He shrugged. "You were angry. You had every right to be, after all. I knew, and I didn't really do anything to ensure your protection."

Ginny rolled her eyes at him. "You take too much of the blame."

He half-smiled at her, just a touch more than a smirk, unapologetic to the bone. "Can't help it."

"He looked so sad," Ginny said after a moment, staring at the ceiling. "As if I did something to hurt him."

Draco raised an eyebrow at her, "Who?"

"My father. I told him about… about Bellatrix."

"You're his little girl, he's probably more disappointed with himself for letting you get mixed up in a situation that would lead to murder."

She sighed into her hands. "Maybe. Probably."

Silence fell again, and Ginny took the chance to look at him. He obviously hadn't slept much the night before, or perhaps many nights before — dark circles ringed his eyes, which was almost as troubling as the fact that he hadn't bothered to cover them up.

She reached out to touch his cheek, and at the last moment, dropped her hand gently to his shoulder. He brought his eyes to hers slowly, and Ginny could see him arguing with himself in his head about the words he wanted to say.

"Thank you for coming," she said finally, letting her hand drop.

He took it, and Ginny tried to hold onto the warm feeling of her hand in his. But when he released it, the feeling disappeared as if it had never been. "How could I not?"

Ginny felt tears welling in her eyes at that. There was so much guilt in him, and it tasted sour on her tongue. She didn't want obligation. _What do you want, then?_ that hateful voice in the back of her mind asked.

"Gin," he whispered, "There's no need–"

"What was it like?" she interrupted.

"Hmm?" he asked, pulling back, "What?"

Her fingers idly picked at a few loose threads on the top sheet. "Azkaban," she said, letting the 'z' roll over tongue longer than it should have. "What was it like?"

She looked up when he didn't answer. His face was blank, almost frighteningly so. And he probably would have been pleased with the way he held together his composure. He looked as though he hadn't heard her. Except the dark circles under his eyes seemed darker, the lines more defined.

An old memory stirred her, Blaise's voice and his tired smirk. _It's really enviable, isn't it? His control. You can only tell if you know what to look for. The more he has to hide, the blanker he becomes. It's sort of terrifying, but, yeah, definitely enviable._

She gritted her teeth, wanting to awkwardly laugh it off, wanting to pretend that she hadn't asked. But she had to know. Had to understand, or the guilt would forever eat her alive. Old guilt. Old fears. Was this what had chased him away? Anger?

She had to know.

He was still silent, still composed. And just …still.

Suddenly, he stood, and she swallowed the apology hovering on her lips as he crossed the room, opened the door, and disappeared.

She bit the inside of her cheek and stared.

She was just turning back to the book that she had almost forgotten about when the door opened again. She glanced up, ready to apologize now, to move on, but it wasn't Draco.

"I saw Draco in the hall," Pansy said with a curious look. "He looked… unfathomable."

Ginny tossed out a half-hearted smirk. "That is the perfect word, isn't it?"

"Hmm," Pansy said, placing another massive bouquet of lilies down on the table across the room. Her fingers traced the curved edges of one of the flowers as she asked, "What did you say to him?"

"Hmm," Ginny responded with the same vagueness. "No idea."

"You're a terrible liar when you're on pain spells."

"So I'm a good liar the rest of the time?"

Pansy chortled. "Sure."

Pansy took a seat next to the bed, crossing her legs elegantly. "So…" she said after a moment, "What's going on with the Auror detail?"

"What do you mean?" Ginny asked.

"There's an Auror posted right outside your room. One more down the hall."

"Oh, well, I assume they're trying to stop whatever psycho attacked me from coming back." It sounded weak.

Pansy just smirked and shook her head. "Terrible liar," she muttered.

"Anyways!" Ginny chirped, a _bit_ too brightly. "So, you and Neville? You ever going to tell me how that came about?"

Pansy stared at her balefully as she rested her elbows on her knees. Her eyes spoke of patience as she just waited.

"Cut it out, Pans," Ginny said after an extended silence. "I'm not going to tell you, and these rip-off interrogation techniques wont work on me."

Silence.

"Pansy!" Ginny cried. "Please, I don't want to think of it."

Pansy dropped her head then, a slight acknowledgment. "But I'm not letting this go."

"Later, then," Ginny said firmly.

Pansy shrugged, then tilted forward to rest her chin in her hands. Ginny watched Pansy think, could practically hear the wheels turning as her friend tried to put some train of thought together. She sighed, and sank back into the bed.

She was incredibly grateful for Pansy's presence. She had grown to love the way the two of them filled up empty spaces, odd yet complimentary. Neither one quite overtook the other in any situation; neither one was smaller than the other's shadow. It was nice to be in a friendship that was so obviously balanced — no matter how different they seemed to be.

And so Ginny waited, enviously pondering the simple grace of Pansy's expression. Pansy hadn't always been graceful; there was nothing inherent in her that brought it out. But somewhere along the way, between the first time Pansy had ever propped up her feet in the back of the library and their first stint after the war, Pansy had developed an inner grace that exuded from her.

Her movements, her gestures, her expressions... it was more than just learned, more than just schooled. It showed the person that she had become, the ways that she had changed. And it was a large testament to Pansy's inner will that she could sit on that plastic chair, looking slightly sleepy and definitely put-out and yet… still graceful.

Almost desperately, Ginny tried to think back to when the change had first come about, but as her mind wandered, she couldn't place the change that was now so glaringly obvious.

"About Neville…?" Ginny reminded, sensing that Pansy had lost her train of thought as well.

Pansy sighed, and then sank back in the chair, kicking off her high-heeled pumps and propping her feet up on the bed. "I'm not sure. After you left, there was a huge vacant space. I mean, it wasn't your fault or anything, I had just grown accustomed to having you around. I even considered coming to America…"

Ginny's eyes widened. She hadn't known.

Pansy let her head roll back slightly and stared impassively at the ceiling. "But in the end, I just couldn't. I mean, I understood that you had to leave and why, but I just… couldn't.

"I don't know if you know, but I'm the one who brought Draco back. I just needed him, needed someone. He came, no questions asked, and just set up shop here. As if it was nothing." Pansy chortled. "I guess, for him, it was nothing."

Ginny stayed silent, her fingers trailing back over the threads of the sheet. It was always hard to listen to Pansy speak about Draco. Hard because Pansy could talk about him in the tone Ginny wanted to. A tone that spoke of easy recognition of someone close.

"But he was still Draco Malfoy, of course. There's no changing that. Ever. Not that I would really want to. Either way, after you and Blaise ruined me–"

"Excuse me? Ruined?" Ginny finally interrupted, needing to clear the tension.

Pansy smirked at her, her dark bangs falling in front of her eyes for a moment before she brushed them back. "In the best possible way, I assure you." Ginny let her head fall back to her pillow, and stared sleepily at the ceiling. "It was still a pretty big shock, though. Draco came home, but everything wasn't okay. I expected Draco to just fill my life up, to just bring so cohesion back. But you know him…"

Ginny glanced over, stared at Pansy's face. Pansy was looking at the door, her eyes opened a bit too widely, as if she was trying to hard to keep them from closing. She spoke as if there was no one else in the room, as if she was all alone. She looked small in her chair, her ivory pantsuit fading into the white walls.

"He's not cold, not exactly. Not emotionally absent. Not even reserved. But the war changed him somehow, and his humor was gone. I thought it would be the last thing he would lose, you see. I thought he would go down with a bitter smirk and a sharp retort. But… well, he's not like that anymore. And he doesn't trust me now, not that he ever did or that he'd ever admit it, but he doesn't. And one day Neville was there, and he was sweet. And he and I talked for a bit and he bought me flowers, pansies, if you can believe it…" Pansy chuckled dryly, but it was clear that she was pleased.

Ginny bit her lip to keep from grinning. She could remember better than anyone, perhaps even better than Pansy, the way that Blaise had been with gifts and love.

"And I got back to my flat and I just started crying and didn't stop. Either way, next time I saw him, he asked me out to dinner. And he was just so patient... almost like a Hufflepuff. It's hard not to give into that eventually. Not that I didn't want to."

Ginny smiled wistfully as she watched the cracks on the ceiling blur and shift. "So what now?" she asked as she fought a yawn.

There was a long silence, and Ginny glanced over as Pansy. The woman was slightly blurry, and Ginny's mind flashed with a strange image of Pansy sitting in the same position in the library, avoiding answering the same question. _When had that been?_ Ginny asked herself.

She couldn't remember just now.

"I don't know," Pansy said softly. Ginny was brought back to the room, slight panic seizing her.

"I don't want you to leave," Ginny whispered.

"What?" Pansy asked bringing the front legs of her tilted chair to the floor with a sharp snap.

Ginny flinched, startled, and for a moment was free of the sleepiness clawing at her with heavy hands. "You can't leave. That's what I wanted to say," she whispered, reaching for Pansy's hand.

The warmth encompassed her own, and Ginny was somewhat surprised by the temperature as she drifted off.

"Sometimes, I wish I hadn't," Ginny thought she heard Pansy say. But that couldn't be right, because Pansy would never have admitted that. Never. The hand tightened around her own, and Ginny fell asleep after twining her fingers through Pansy's.

...

Her mother took her home the next day. Back to her apartment. She told her mother that she wasn't ready to go back to the Burrow, that she just wanted to be in her own bed right now. But she had been lying—she didn't want to be anywhere near her empty white apartment. She wanted color. But she also wanted to be left alone.

There were two Aurors positioned outside of her flat. There was a special alarm added to her wards, which the Aurors set about to improve, but gave up when they realized that Draco's spells were flawless. There were a hundred offers from people to come and stay with her. She turned them all down.

Instead she sat in her apartment and idled. Occasionally, she would unbutton her shirt to stare at the long scar down the middle of her chest. It was extended and pink, slightly puffy and very delicate to the touch. It pulled tightly every time she stretched. She wondered when it would fade.

After one day of intense boredom, she dug her laptop out of her last unpacked box and started it up. It booted up slowly, and she immediately started leeching off someone else's wireless, went to Google, and typed in 'Grocery delivery'.

Why go outside, when there's no reason to?

She made sure to order quite a bit of liquor, too.

That taken care of, she went back to staring at her chest. She couldn't decide if it made her look more or less attractive. It certainly added character.

And then, the question she had been avoiding came to her. The question she hadn't wanted to ask. "Why didn't he kill me?"

"He could have. So easily. He could have inflicted more damage. He could have tortured me. He could have snuffed my life out like a candle."

Ginny sighed, sinking to her couch and pulling a pillow under her head. She picked up one of the packaged spells on her table and ripped it open. She pressed the pale cloth to her chest, and felt the warmth sinking into her skin. Soothed.

Then she reached for the TV remote.

...

There was a knock on her door. "Um, Miss Weasley?"

She stood with a snap. Her clock blinked at her. It had been hours. She shook herself. "How many times do I have to tell you, Michael. Please, call me Gin," she called out sleepily as she walked towards her front door, buttoning her shirt.

She reached for the lock, but then paused and glanced out the small peephole. Michael, her Auror, was standing by the door with a Muggle holding grocery bags. Her palm connected with her forehead. "I forgot all about that! Sorry, Mike," she said as she hastily opened the door.

She stared at the stout, middle-aged, stubble-covered deliveryman. He was glaring at Michael. Michael was glaring right back.

"Just leave them on the steps," Ginny said tentatively. "I'll bring them all in."

Bag after bag of groceries was brought up to her door. So much of all the Muggle food she had been missing. Finally Gin had piled them all onto her tiny kitchen table, but she couldn't bring herself to put them away. Michael asked from behind her, "Do you want help?"

She turned to look at him then, taking in his easy slouch and his small smile. He looked, for lack of a better phrase, All-American. Tall, broad-shouldered, bronzed, with short brown hair, bright blue eyes, and an ever-ready grin. He played sports at school, for sure, and was always laughing. He left her with a lingering impression of Seamus Finnegan, and looked like someone she had pulled once in New York. She was half-tempted to invite him to have a drink with her, and then to take him back to her bedroom and find out what sort of scars lay hidden beneath his Auror robes.

She shook her head, both a 'no' in response to him and an attempt to chase away frivolous thoughts. In no way did she want to start thinking about sex. He shrugged at her, and turned, heading back to take his post on the front steps.

As she shoved the spoilable goods into the freezer (which included several ready-meals and a few pints of ice cream), and grabbed the new bottle of bourbon she had ordered, she was grateful to be alone again. Deliverable alcohol. She had never done that before. She rather liked it.

With a giggle, she unscrewed the black cap, and poured her first glass. Music videos were playing on the TV now, and she tuned in with half-interest to a shirtless man dancing and singing in the rain.

Her mind drifted back over that question, the alcohol slowing the unwanted answer. _So, Gin,_ she thought to herself, _a psychopathic murderer is out to get you. And yet… he hasn't… done it yet. What does that mean?_

She poured another glass. Sweet release.

Three drinks left Ginny fiddling with her phone distractedly, fighting the distant panic that was seizing up within her. It was almost too much. Was it just a warning? A message? Just a chance to inspire a bit more fear? Was he that confident in his plan?

Her brain spun sickly, her stomach following. Did she want to die? Was that what this was about? Was he waiting for her to come to him? Would she? Willingly?

A voice called her, and she glanced down at her mobile, Draco's name hovered on the screen. "Why didn't he kill me?" she whispered, her eyes closing against her will. She had forgotten how sleepy doing nothing made her. She didn't welcome the warm embrace, but still, she sank into it.

"…Do you want to die?" _a voice asked. _

_Where was it coming from? _

_Ginny sat down on her couch, and breathed. Slowly. She put her head between her knees and breathed in and out. Slow breaths._

_She regained her much wanted control forcefully, and turned up the volume on the television. A song she recognized._ You're not the one who let me down, but thanks for offering… _She hummed along and reached for the bottle when her fingers were knocked away by a graceful hand. She started violently and the bottle almost tipped over. _

_Somehow, she managed to catch it before too much of the amber fluid, thick like honey, could spill. She turned to Draco and opened her mouth before closing it again. "What?" he asked. _

"_What are you doing here?" _

"_I was worried, and I suppose I had every right to be. What's going on?" Resentful. _

"_I…" she stared at him, and he stared at the bottle. _

"_Is it okay for you to drink?" he asked walking away from her and towards the kitchen. _

_She stared after him, and stood up to follow, when he came back with a towel. He slowly kneeled down on her floor and began to wipe up her mess. It seemed larger now; she thought she had prevented that. She shakily poured a glass and took a very deep gulp. It was thick, sweet, and rancid in her mouth. She almost gagged, taking it down like a burden._

"_Probably not," she finally said, sinking back onto the couch. "I suppose the doctors would have a fit."_

"_But you don't care," he said acerbically. _

_She slouched and propped her feet up on the table. "The nightmares are getting worse."_

_She finished the glass of whiskey. She poured another. She didn't offer him any. Didn't meet his eyes. Didn't close the bottle. She wanted to be able to let it go. She wanted to believe in him. Reality was slip sliding away again. Fading and folding and …falling. Was there anything to latch onto? _

_She was confused. Her glass was empty. Was she ever going to feel alive again? There was just haze and daze and billows and shifting scenes of skyless clouds. _

_Draco was staring at her, wasn't he? _

"_Why didn't he kill me?" she asked, sitting up. She forced herself to focus. To pour. To drink. To stare. "Why? He could have? What else is coming?"_

"_You're imagining things, Gin," he said. "Lestrange was never very talented. He meant to kill you and he meant to make it painful. But he failed. Let it go."_

"_Am I making it all up then?" She asked, sure that she was slurring now. "Is it just another nightmare?"_

_Draco stood up, and his face shifted, she stared up in confusion. That wasn't supposed to happen, was it? The face of Slytherin greeted her, a pleasant psychiatrist smile. "Tell me about them?" _

_Brown curly hair flopped over his brow, shading beautiful dark eyes from view. Tears gathered. "You won't like it." _

"_Won't like what?" Draco's voice asked from her left. She took another long sip. The nausea was coming now, only it didn't. It just hovered on the periphery, an endless possibility. The cracks on the ceiling grew, traveled down her wall, spidered out. The world was falling. _

"_They're… so much more vivid. Becoming real. Things following me. People and places. Did I make it all up? Are you even real? I just can't tell anymore. When the dreams end. Do they ever? Nothing's ever finished." Something strummed on her conscious. The song played again. She shook herself, lost the thought. _

"_I suppose," he said softly, "Not if you don't let it."_

_She drained her glass again; "Do I want to die?" she asked. _

"_Does it matter? What makes you think you'll have a choice?" _

"_Why don't I get to choose?" _

"_I suppose you can. But then you'd have to make up your mind."_

"_Make up my mind about what?"_

"_Whether or not you want to die…"_

_Ginny started at the new voice, opening eyes she hadn't noticed closing and stared into crystal clear blue ones. "What are you doing here?" she asked in surprise._

"_Aren't you pleased to see me?" Blaise asked. _

"_Well, for once, I think I am," Ginny said. "Does Pansy know you're back?"_

"_Did I go somewhere?"_

"_You died," Ginny said softly. _

"_Hmm, yes. I suppose I did." _

_Ginny started to cry. _

"_Let me get you another," Blaise said, taking her glass. _

_He filled it. "Drink. And then ask yourself. Do you want to be free?"_

_Ginny took a gulp. "Will it help me answer the question?"_

"_No. It will untether you. Let yourself go, Gin." His eyes turned green as he stared at her excitedly. _

_She choked. "Poison?"_

_He shrugged. "All depends on how you look at it, doesn't it? Don't you want to die?"_

"_No," she whispered. Blaise's face was shifting. It was almost Draco again. _

"_Fight, then. You have to fight it." _Fight!

...

Ginny woke with a start. Draco was kneeling over her, looking incredibly pale and oddly panicked. He took a shaky breath when she opened her eyes. She turned her head, saw the short leg of her couch an inch from her nose. She was on the floor.

She struggled to sit up, groggily trying to fight through the headache. Her laptop sat open on her table next to the open bottle of bourbon. Her mobile was next to her on the ground. Draco sort of half-collapsed, his shoulders falling forward, his breathing evening slowly. She catalogued all this slowly, trying to sort it out, to put it all in chronological order so she could derive some sense from them. How much time had it been since she passed out? _When_ had she passed out?

"What happened?" she asked.

Draco was, as ever, succinct. "You called. The line went dead. I came straight over. But I couldn't wake you up."

She smiled faintly. His customary abruptness was reassured her. "When was that?" she asked. She looked out the window; the sky was bright with late afternoon.

"About a minute ago. I was just about to get your Auror. I don't know what the fuck he's doing out there." Ginny started slightly at the violence promised in his eyes.

They were silent for a long moment, sharing fear. "The nightmares… they're getting worse."

Draco glanced at her, his look both troubled and frustrated. "How much worse?"

Ginny tried to think of an adequate answer, but couldn't. She shrugged.

"Do you know why he didn't kill me?" she asked, rolling her shoulders. She stretched each muscle of her back slowly. She tested her arms. She felt the floor beneath her. It was real. The dream had felt real too. Very, very real. But not this real. She realized she should be afraid for her sanity, but she wasn't. Not consciously, at least.

"No."

Ginny let out a rush of breath, so relieved that his answer wasn't the same, patronizing _'You're imagining things.'_ Ginny reached out tentatively and touched Draco's shoulder, she could feel the heat beneath her fingers, and she smiled, even as her hand shook. The dream had had no temperature. Her sigh was heavy with relief.

Draco glanced at her curiously. "Just making sure you're real," Ginny said softly, slowly standing and walking over to the couch.

"What sort of nightmares?" Draco pressed, standing as well. He tucked his hands into his pockets after glancing at his watch.

"Luckily, the sort you wake up from," Ginny said offhandedly. She threw back the half glass of bourbon, in one gulp, choking a little.

Draco raised an eyebrow at that, but made no comment. Instead, he questioned, "How do you feel?"

"Good as new," she lied, stretching out on the couch. The scar on her chest stretched too. She stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks with her finger from the distance. She had never noticed them before, not until she dreamed them. She wondered idly if she had dreamed them into existence. She shuddered as she thought about the long black trails they had left down her wall.

"Blaise was in my dream this time," Ginny puzzled out loud. "That's unusual."

Draco's jaw clenched at the information. "Probably just association."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Lestrange was the one to finish him off, in the end."

Ginny's brow wrinkled. That felt …right. "I never knew that, though. Which Lestrange?"

Draco sat down on the end of the couch, next to her head, and Ginny watched the movement with a frown. How did he manage to do even that with elegance?

"Rodolphus, of course. Bellatrix was dead before that even happened. Blaise's murder led to Rodolphus's apprehension. Are you sure you didn't know?"

"Pretty sure."

"What did he say?"

Ginny sighed. "He asked me if I wanted to be free. Then he poisoned me. And you were there, and Tom. And I was very drunk." She shook her head. "God, getting drunk in a dream. I guess I really am an alcoholic."

Draco smirked, "Was there ever any doubt?" She stuck out her tongue, and he rolled his eyes.

"So," she said after a moment. "Why didn't he kill me? Was he trying to send a message?"

Draco fidgeted, an unfamiliar gesture that made her head ache. "Perhaps. But that thought makes me nervous."

"Why?"

"Because maybe he actually has a reason to be that cocky. He slipped away incredibly easily. The Ministry is still confused."

"Did Rodolphus kill Snape?" she asked quietly.

Draco's hands clenched into fists. "No."

She wanted to reach out and grab his hand, to comfort him somehow. The question she was about to ask disappeared from her tongue when she met his eyes. He looked sad, angry, and ashamed.

_You did_, she thought to herself, a sudden realization. She rolled onto her side, fighting the tide of bitter sorrow surfacing. She rested one palm on his knee, but she knew the gesture was lost on him; he just got tenser.

"Would you like a drink?" she asked with a half-smile.

He gritted his teeth. "Don't you think it's a little early?"

"It's after noon, isn't it?"

He scoffed. "Fine, then. But none of that hideous stuff you served me last time. I had a hangover for days."

Ginny giggled. "Weakling."

She pulled herself up with effort and walked to the kitchen to get another glass. She dropped a few ice cubes into it, and then glanced at the ice cream. She grabbed a pint of mint chocolate chip as well and two spoons, and then walked back into the living room.

Draco's head was tipped back onto the couch, and he was staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. She sat down next to him and poured them each a glass. Then she opened the ice cream, leaving the silence untouched for the moment.

She offered him a spoon, but he shook his head. "I don't like sweet things," he said with a sigh.

Ginny bit back a mocking smile, _everyone_ likes sweet things. Her smile darkened slightly as she picked up her glass of whiskey and gently swirled it, staring at the ripples across the surface. Finally, she took a small sip, and welcomed the smooth thin liquid and the burn down the back of her throat.

"About Azkaban," Draco said, and Ginny's head snapped up. She had almost forgotten he was there.

"You don't have to–"

"Just shut up for a moment," he said, pulling out a cigarette. Ginny watched as he lit it, and felt oddly comforted by the familiar gesture. He offered her one and she took it, lighting it herself with the cheap lighter she had picked up the day before. His was missing, lost among the clothing that had been removed at the hospital. She fiercely longed to have it back.

He let loose a long puff of smoke with his sigh, and turned to stare at her. "I really don't know how to describe it to you. There was more than just the Dementors — which were being phased out; there were other forms of mental torture that the guards just couldn't wait to try. And I, honestly, don't remember much. But it was the longest two weeks of my life."

Ginny tried not to break his gaze, but she just couldn't stop herself from looking away. He was lying; she could tell that he remembered every hateful second. "I'm sorry," she finally said.

"It's hardly your fault."

"You think?"

"I know. I'm the only one who gets to take the blame for that."

He drained the rest of the whiskey and pulled on the cigarette. She watched, entranced, before she turned to look around the room. The walls were a familiar sort of beige, only partially covered by her cluttered bookshelves. The entire room was cluttered, actually, in a way that her last flat had never been. It looked lived in, and it was a lie.

"I think I need to paint, don't you?"

Draco smirked at her and reached for the second spoon. "You should probably clean first."

...

"_What do you want?" Snape asked, his black eyes narrowing over his large nose. His voice was angry and tainted with, as usual, malice. _

_The cold stone walls flexed angrily around her. "I'm here to see the prisoner."_

_Snape smirked at her. "Rodolphus is out right now," he said in a clear imitation of an answering machine, "But you can see a stand-in, if you like."_

_Ginny nodded eagerly. "Is Draco here?"_

_Snape's jaw tightened and he shrieked, "Don't you say that name to me!" He took out his wand and whopped her cheek with it. "In fact don't say it at all."_

_As her hand flew to rest on her stinging jaw, Ginny spluttered, "Dra–" her lips tensed. She tried again, finding it impossible now to even form the 'D'. _

_Snape laughed as he walked to the door behind the desk, beckoning her. "Come, come — little girl."_

_She glanced down at herself, about the retort that she was hardly little, but stopped short. She was wearing her Hogwarts uniform, a Slytherin badge on her chest._

_She followed him. The door led outside, into a bright courtyard. The prisoners were playing rugby. "This isn't right."_

"_Mr. Zabini," Snape snapped, and the brunet turned, dropping the ball he held. He jogged over, stopping on the other side of the chain link fence. His curly hair blew in the wind, tangled with sweat and sport._

_"Gin! What are you doing here?" He was out of breath and covered in dirt, but he was grinning that Zabini grin. Her eyes, even in the dream, welled with tears. "I didn't think you'd come," Blaise continued, "What with that last fight we had in the library. But Pansy said you would."_

"_Pansy's been by?" she asked, stepping forward and threading her fingers through the links._

"_Well, no," Blaise said with a rueful shrug. "She hates the cold; you know that."_

_And suddenly, it _was_ cold, frigid, in fact. _

"_Blaise," she said softly, and he grinned, his fingers brushing over hers. A dead man's touch. _

"_I'm gonna get back to the game. If you run into Pans, tell her I love her? And I miss her? Let her know that I'm doing alright and all."_

"_Blaise," Ginny said again, pleading. _

"_I'll tell Rodolphus you were by," he said with a jaunty wave as he turned back to the game. _

_The scene shifted, and she was back in the boat. It was night, and the water was cold. Michael was rowing. "I tol' ya', Gin. I tol' ya' he'd be out."_

"_I had to check." She glanced up at the stars and they glittered. The wind rocked the boat. _

_A Muggle speedboat was approaching quickly from the shore, heading to where they had just left. It slowed as it passed them, and Ginny saw bright yellow cat-eyes glittering in the dark. Rodolphus smiled at her, his lips twisting into an ugly grin. _

_He pointed at his face. "Do you want to know where I got my scar?"_

_She shook her head, slinking back in fear. "I was just looking for you," she said loudly, "We need to talk."_

"_I do not know much about gods, but I do know much of us. Of _we who are only defeated,_" he said, with an eerie grin. "You can stop looking, when it's time, don't worry, you'll find me."_

_Ginny shuddered, and Rodolphus licked his lips. "I like the taste of your fear." His motorboat screamed as he gunned it, and he disappeared, his laughter fading into the distance._

"_Eh, Gin?" Mike said, rowing harder, "Don' let him get ta' ya'. It'll be over soon enough"_

"_Dr–" Ginny tried to say again, as the boat came to a stop next to the small, rickety dock._

_She started to turn, when Michael grabbed her arm, "Don't look back, Gin, people never come back." _

_All around her the air was full with screaming. _

...

Pansy stared at Ginny and the paintbrush she held balefully. "I'm not quite sure I understand."

Ginny huffed. "You simply take the brush, dip it into the paint, and move it in a repetitive fashion, thus applying the paint to the walls."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You do realize that this is why people invented spells, right? So that they wouldn't have to do this–"

"C'mon, Pans, it'll be fun," Neville said, grabbing a roller and dipping it excitedly into the paint. It was a deep, dark red. Darker than blood; redder than wine.

"And, why," Pansy barreled on, "Would you pick such a horrid shade?"

Ginny sighed. "I will order take-away and give you copious amounts of liquor."

"And cigarettes," Pansy said.

"And cigarettes," Ginny ceded.

Pansy gingerly took the brush from Ginny's hand, and slowly dipped it into the paint. Ginny smiled, and went to retrieve a few beers. Pansy wrinkled her nose at the choice of alcohol, but took the beer and muttered, "Work like them, drink like them."

Ginny didn't know who the 'them' were, but she chuckled anyway before stepping into her living room which was to be a pale, bright green. She picked up a second roller, and slowly, began to cover up the white.

She was just getting into the movement of the thing, when Pansy spoke. "So, word is that Rodolphus is the one that attacked you."

Ginny stretched, reaching upwards to cover a tiny little patch of white near the ceiling.

"Is it true?"

She brought the roller back down and dipped it into the green paint. She rolled it slowly across the tray. Once, twice, three times.

Then it was back to the wall.

"Yes," Ginny finally said. "Because I killed Bellatrix."

"Oh," Pansy said. She plopped down on the couch that was, at the moment, covered with a white sheet. "Well, I suppose that makes sense."

Silence reigned for a few moments, and Ginny sighed. "Pansy, I'm–"

"Gods," Pansy said, interrupting, "I hate that bastard. Make sure he doesn't kill you, okay?"

Ginny stared at her in surprise. "Umm… okay."

Pansy nodded and smiled, with only a hint of sadness lurking behind her eyes. "I would really have to track him down and kill him then."

Ginny put the roller down and stared at her friend. Ginny forced a grin, sure that it looked tired. "Well, I would hate for you to have to get your hands dirty," Gin said with a sniff.

Pansy chuckled and nodded.

Unable to stare at Pansy's profile any longer, Ginny turned her eyes to the floor. It was growing blurry beneath her gaze. She reached up to wipe away the tears, when suddenly she felt something cool and wet in her hair. She spun around with a little shout of surprise to see Neville standing there, smirking, with a very red paintbrush in hand. The red dripped onto the floor slowly.

He laughed at the outraged expression on her face, and then Pansy started laughing too as she picked up the green roller and attacked Neville with it.

Ginny watched, a smile hovering on her lips, as the two duked it out. Then they turned to her.

With matching, terrifying smirks, the two charged at her with raised brushes, and Ginny shrieked, hiding her face as she tried to grab a weapon.

Green and red got everywhere as the three of them darted around her living room, violently slinging paint.

...

"So," Ginny said to Mike, stabbing her chopsticks into her soba noodles, "How's the case coming?"

Mike shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Well…"

"When am I going to be allowed to return to work?"

Ginny had been trapped inside her flat, hardly allowed to leave at all since the attack. She had used every excuse in the book to get some fresh air, but even things like 'my parents will be worried' and 'I'm out of whiskey' had stopped working. It had been two and a half weeks now.

It was Thanksgiving in New York, and she sort of missed the holiday. She could remember sitting around a table with her temporary friends and listing off things she was grateful for. She had briefly toyed with the idea of going back, of inviting herself over to a friend's house and eating turkey and mash, before she dismissed the thought just as easily.

"Miss Weasley, you know that that's not really an option…."

Ginny gritted her teeth, and frowned. She was more than a little sick of her guard dogs, and she got the distinct impression that someone, whether her family or Malfoy, had instructed them to watch out for _her_ instead of the bad guy.

"Well, let's got shopping today, or _something_, I never leave the flat any more, and I'm going stir crazy."

Michael just stared at her. "I'm not sure that's the best of ideas."

She glared at him. He shrunk back a little bit, but his demeanor did not change.

"But I'm bored," she whined.

He raised an eyebrow as he twisted his noodles around a fork and shoved them into his mouth. She briefly toyed with the idea of teaching him to use chopsticks to fill the time, but then she shrugged it off. She needed something bigger.

"Come on, let's just pop down the block, I can get some…" she trailed off. Her house was so fully stocked because she had been shopping almost every day for the past week and a half. She was going to have to start cooking again.

She pursed her lips. "Socks."

"Socks?"

"Yes, socks. I need them. It's an emergency."

"I think that your definition of emergency is a bit different from the Ministry's," Michael said around his noodles.

She glanced balefully at his bowl, glad to see that it was now empty. She found it hard to watch him eat.

Crankily, she crossed her arms and reiterated, "I need new socks."

He held up his hands in submission. "I'll go talk to Damien, see if he's cool with a field trip."

She glared at his snarkiness. Damien was her other Auror, and he was incredibly cautious. "Let him know we're taking the tube."

"Absolutely not."

"A taxi?"

He shook his head again. "We apparate."

She rolled her eyes and watched him step out of the kitchen.

"Oh and, Gin," he called, "Thanks for lunch."

She stood slowly and stretched, and crankily picked up the bowls. Then she dropped them into her sink, watching one break clean in half. With a sigh, she vanished away the cracked porcelain.

A smirk rose to her face. She was going to have to replace that.

...

Ginny hummed as she walked down the street, three humungous bags of socks swinging at her sides. Inside the bags there were knee socks and ankle socks. Green socks and plaid socks. Socks that went all the way up to the top of her thighs. Socks covered in little bumble bees. Lumpy wool socks. Socks that sang, socks that were supposed to make you taller, a better dancer. Oder killing socks. Socks that stopped you from skidding on your floor. Socks that never got wet. Massaging socks. Heated socks. Toe socks.

She had no idea that so many types of socks had existed, and, excitedly, she had bought anything her hands had touched while the polite, albeit snotty, salesman had twittered on about how important socks were. 'Details!' he had shouted so many times, 'It's all in the details!'

Ginny had been overwhelmed, and Michael had just stood in a corner the entire time, smirking. She would never need to buy socks again. Dumbledore would be so proud.

Mike was still rolling his eyes at her, but had caved when she insisted on apparating a few blocks away from her flat so that they could walk in the fading November sun. It was hard to believe that she would have another Christmas in England. Just last year, she would have laughed it off. She had posted all of her presents home.

"I hope this whole thing blows over soon," she said with a little skip in her step. "Heaven's knows how I'm going to shop for Christmas."

"Owl order," Mike said sharply. "And this 'whole thing' isn't just going to 'blow over'." He added pretentious little air quotes around 'whole thing' and 'blow over', and she tossed him an irate grin.

"If you did your job, instead of stuffing yourself on my food, it just might."

He smirked at her again, but his eyes were serious, and she noticed his spine stiffening slightly. "Can't you walk any faster?"

She shot him an irritated look, "I know you're not stupid, Mike, you must know why I insisted upon walking even such a short distance."

He muttered something about feelings and bad.

"If you'd like to take my bags, I might be inspired to quicken my pace."

She was surprised by the lack of smile on Mike's face, and watched as his brow tightened. "I need my hands."

Much more subdued, Ginny upped the pace, perturbed by the apprehension on Michael's face.

Even the wind seemed chillier as they walked the last few blocks, her fingertips resting on her wand the entire way.

...

Mike did a quick scan of her wards with his wand, and then frowned. Damien appeared when Mike gave a signal, and Ginny glanced at him in surprise. She had never seen Damien before, she realized suddenly, only known vaguely of his presence.

His appearance shocked her, but at least she understood why he was the one that stayed hidden. He was almost as scarred as Mad-Eye Moody; his hands were mangled messes sticking out through the too short sleeves of his wrinkled robes. His face was bisected by a long scar that stretched from the center of his brow down across his left cheek. Through the high collar of his robes, she could see a pale and slender horizontal scar across his throat, as if someone had slit it. He walked slightly hunched and with a limp. And though his hair was greying and there were distinct lines around them, his eyes spoke of an age that was only a little more than hers.

Damien nodded at Mike, and opened the front door, while Ginny tried to peer around Mike's shoulder. There was no one inside. The flat was cold, dark, and a fire that she didn't remember lighting cast dead light over the room uncertainly. The three filed in slowly, and though Mike gasped and tried to shield her eyes, there was no hiding the sight that greeted her.

Ginny stared, frozen and transfixed, at the blood running across her floor. Over her mantle. Down her walls. Streaming steadily from the dead weasel pinned to the wall with a large dagger. Dripping onto the floor.

Her first thought was, _Well_, that's _original_. Then she screamed. High, loud, and long.

...

She wasn't sure how long she screamed. But all she could think about was the creature pinned to her wall. Her nice, freshly painted, incredibly calming, pale green wall. Covered in blood that was still seeping out, the puddle growing bigger on the floor. _Drip, drip, drip_. Its entrails gutted, hanging down, a mess of blues and pinks and brown. And the blood, dripping. Its long body suspended, limp, dead. Matted brown and white fur. The knife, covered in blood, its handle simple, beautiful, twisted silver.

The scream wasn't fearful, but angry. Frustrated and pinned. She lashed out.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Ginny fought for breath, fought the panic. Tried not to scream again, and settled for sitting on her couch and hyperventilating.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Make it stop!" she shouted at Mike, choking on the panic flooding her lungs.

He blinked at her, his tanned face ashen as it hovered over hers still, searching for words, trying to comfort her, calm her.

"The dripping," she snapped, overly aware of the volume of her voice. "The fucking dripping, make it STOP!"

"We shouldn't… touch anything," he said with a hesitant look at Damien.

Damien just shrugged, the gesture only adding to the strangeness of his overall appearance. He was looking at the mangled mess on the wall with curiosity. Ginny rocked back and forth on the couch.

As far as messages go, this one was not too subtle. He could come and go as he liked, into and out of her apartment like a ghost. He could terrify her. He could torment her. He could see her, and follow her, and watch her every movement. He was coming for her, and he was going to kill her.

She shuddered and counted backwards from twenty. "Mike," she said, "Could you get me a cup of tea?"

Mike looked torn and confused. Ginny had to bite back her anger. Emotions were coursing through her, and her breathing was not steadying her quickly enough.

Three pops in the room, signals of Apparition. She glanced up and saw two men in Auror uniforms — and Draco. Draco was wearing long, formal robes, and she thought disjointedly that it had been a long time since she had seen him in robes. He looked rather ridiculous. She thought that maybe a three-piece grey pinstripe suit would look better.

When she glanced up at his face to tell him this, she found herself swallowing the words. His jaw was tight, the line of his lips hard and pressed. A glance at the mantle and his look intensified. Then he walked over to her. She looked up into his grey eyes, flashing in the evening light, seeming the color of silver now, and she closed hers. Blood and silver and the dripping. For heaven's sake! The dripping!

Drip. Drip. Drip.

"Are you alright?" His hand came to rest on her shoulder.

She ground her teeth and shrugged it off, feeling the fiery anger whipping back to the surface. "Oh, yes," she snarled, "I'm just fine."

Unfortunately, he didn't rise to the bait, and she was left glaring at his back as he conferred with the Aurors.

She started muttering to herself. _Drip. Drip. Drip._ "Am I alright? Of _course_ I'm alright. Just _peachy_. Never allowed to go anywhere without my fucking guard-dogs. Never allowed to sit outside. Not even allowed to take a fucking piss without telling them about it first. And then there's this crazy, psychopathic, enraged _twat_ after me, who seems to think that I need a good tormenting before he kills me, so _sure_, I'm just fine, right as rain, as a matter of fact. Never mind that I'm bloody fucking stir crazy and sick to death of being scared." Ginny scowled angrily at her feet, dressed in worn out Muggle trainers, during her rant. Her feet seemed small and, though quite willing to take the abuse, refused to respond.

She switched her glare to something else. Everyone in the room seemed fit to avoid meeting her eyes though. Everyone except Mike. He was staring at her pityingly and a part of her snapped.

"What?" she snapped.

His eyebrows rose, and she stood up. "What?" she said, hardly noticing now that she was shouting.

Everyone was looking at her. "All of you," she said, with twenty-two years of menace packed into her voice, "Get out. Get that fucking rodent off my wall, pick your shit up, and get the fuck out of my house. GET OUT!" No one moved.

_Drip._

Ginny stomped her foot. "GET OUT!"

"Gin," Mike said beseechingly, stepping forward.

She took two steps towards him, and she punched him. Hard. A swift left-hook to the side of his face. She watched his head snap around, and his entire body jerked to the side with the brunt of the force.

Ginny looked on in shock as he fell to a knee. His hand flew to his jaw and he winced in pain. Silence descended hard and fast, as everyone stared at her.

Her breathing ragged, she looked at her hand. It hurt. All of her hurt. She had never punched anyone before. Not ever. It was a strange feeling, and not at all agreeable. She lowered her hands, and felt her shoulders drooping. But still, she seethed.

She turned and stalked to her bedroom. The hinges rattled with the force of the slammed door.

Ginny lay down on her bed and closed her eyes. Tears wanted to seep out, but she forced herself not to cry as she cradled her hand. The dark red walls of her bedroom closed in around her, and her heart raced in her ears. Pityingly. Pity.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

She tried to calm down, closed her eyes, counted backwards from one hundred.

But she couldn't concentrate and all she could see was a myriad faces and people. It all seemed so unconnected. Blaise's face, caught in harsh light, telling her that he was alright through the linked fence. Tom's eyes, asking her if she wants to die, telling her that it would be alright. Draco's face, _It will be okay._ Silver eyes and pale hair, a small smirk. An essence of a smile. Harry's green eyes, looking into hers happily. Sliding closed as he leaned in to kiss her. The fading scar on his shoulder underneath her lips. A trail of sweat sliding down Charlie's chin. Dirt in his red hair. A smile.

The red room swirled. Seamus laughed, and Neville stared at her worriedly. Snape glared, heavy. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. _You've grown wise,_ she said to Ron. Emily bounced on his knee. Remus's fingers wound through her own. Sirius's shocked face disappeared behind the veil. Lucius touched his jaw as he struggled to his feet, books strewn about. Mike shoveled curry into his mouth, laughing at something she said.

Harry touched her cheek, "It's going to be fine, Gin. You'll see."

"Ginevra," Draco said to her, and she shot up in bed, blinking. He stood at the door to her bedroom cautiously.

"Did you make it stop," she asked, no longer angry. At least, not at him.

"The dripping has ceased, yes," he said slowly, mockingly, walking forward and taking her hand. The gesture was so strange that she tried to jerk away. He held on and tapped her knuckles with his wand. She felt the pain recede. "You dislocated Smithson's jaw."

It took her a moment to realize that he was talking about Michael. "I was angry."

"Are you still?"

"Yes. But don't worry, I won't hit you." She tried to smile at him, but it came out as a petulant glower.

He looked unimpressed. He sat down next to her on the bed. "The weasel was Avada Kedaveraed, and then pinned to the mantle and gutted. There was a charm to keep it bleeding. I'm sorry you had to see that."

She shifted slightly, and tucked her hands underneath her thighs. "It's hardly your fault."

"You think?" he asked, tipping his head forward.

She turned to look at him, and he looked back, almost sadly. She sneered, "I know."

Then she leaned over and kissed him. Everything in her body screamed against it, but she ignored it and his unresponsive lips as she pushed herself further against him. She knew exactly why if felt wrong, but she ignored those voices, and listened to her own quickening of breath.

Three seconds. His lips were hot and soft beneath her own. Five seconds. He smelled like thyme and blood. Six seconds. Draco was kissing her back. His hand clutched at her hair, as his tongue slipped forcefully into her mouth. It was harsh and angry. _Too harsh?_ she asked herself before leaning further into the kiss, letting her hands skate across his shoulders, digging her fingernails through the expensive material of his robes. It was vindictive. Selfish.

His fingers pressed into her arm and her spine, branding her with bruises. Her own were pulling forcefully on his robes. Despite herself, she felt the anger burning through her, a strong fire tearing her apart inside. She felt herself coming to life, trying to escape it, as she pushed harder against him.

Suddenly Draco sprang away, and, as soon as the cool air touched her, she realized she had been expecting it. She toppled over, falling slightly into the dent he had left in her bed.

He stared down at her in dismay and disgust. And she totally understood his anger. Suddenly sorry, she opened her mouth to speak, and he cut her off with a harsh slashing of his hand.

The apology died forever on her lips as he glared at her. Her own anger was welling at the surface – wanting to be let out, and she didn't try to stop it.

Instead she let out a snarl and stood. Three harsh shoves to the center of his chest and he was out of her room. She slammed the door in his blank face and then threw her own back against it, sliding to the floor. The fire sparked within her, and then faded, as if doused with an extra-large bucket of water.

Warily, she stared at her hands, then touched her lips. _That was not supposed to happen,_ she thought. _At least not like that._

She closed her eyes softly, and allowed her fingers to linger reverently on her lips. A moment from a dream came back to her then, gently shifting itself into her head. Her eyes welled with tears as her mind lingered.

_I'm ready._ Dream Draco had said with such confidence. _You always are._ Dream Ginny had responded.

Ginny's sob caught in her throat, because her mother was right. She had to _stop_ dreaming. Life wasn't like that. They could never go back. She had lost. She picked up a book sitting on the floor by the door and threw it at the bed. It landed with a hollow thump and flopped open to a random page. _Beautiful Losers_ the spine read.

"It's over," she whispered to herself, but she wasn't sure about what had just come to an end.

She only knew that she herself had ruined it.

* * *

A/N: Must be noted again that there's another reference to T.S. Eliot in this chapter. In the dream sequence when Rodolphous says "_I do not know much about gods, but I do know much of us. Of we who are only defeated,_" that is an adaptation of a concept/line from Eliot's 'The Dry Salvages'.

Also — _Beautiful Losers_ is a novel by Leonard Cohen. It has **absolutely nothing** to do with this story, it's just the book that happened to be on my desk, but I would highly recommend it to anyone.

Thanks for reading, guys! xxx


	6. Chapter 6: Hollow Men

Chapter 6: Hollow Men

* * *

_Our dried voices, when  
__We whisper together  
__Are quiet and meaningless  
__As wind in dry grass  
__Or rats' feet over broken glass  
__In our dry cellar  
__Shape without form, shade without colour,  
__Paralysed force, gesture without motion;  
__Those who have crossed  
__With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
__Remember us — if at all — not as lost  
__Violent souls  
_ -T.S. Eliot , 'Hollow Men'

* * *

Her dream that night was less a dream and more a memory. It had the surreal quality of existing exactly as it had in that moment, the thoughts, the fears, the shivers. It had happened exactly as she dreamed it; it had happened and then she had forgotten. It was a memory without the effect of being remembered.

_She was standing in her courtyard. Her courtyard, she thought. Because it wasn't _theirs_. It was hers. It was the end of her seventh year. The next day the rest of the students would be leaving this place, and she would be returning to her home in Hogsmeade from the castle for the last time. _

_She was hugging herself and thinking about the future. Harry and she had had a strange fight. Strange because she had been fighting with an unfamiliar person, a Harry she had known long ago. He had asked her to move into his London flat with him, but she wanted to get her own place. He didn't understand. It was one of his good days, after all. _

_She sighed and hugged herself tighter before casting a warming charm to feel the familiar magical embrace. She wanted to pretend that she wasn't alone. _

_Harry's good days were few and far between at this point, and she was starting to fear them even more than his bad ones. She was afraid of looking into the face of the boy she had loved so long ago and still scratched at the surface. The boy that she had failed so irrevocably. _

_With a frustrated cry, she sort of flopped to the ground. She was leaving this place tomorrow, and it just wasn't right. This was not the person that she had wanted to become. This was not the future that she had wanted to greet her. _

_After wrestling with the dead grass for a few minutes, she forced herself to stand. She forced herself to look out at the courtyard and say goodbye. Then, gently, she set the lighter, her last vestige of him, on the bench, turned and walked away. _

_She joined the throngs of students in the hallways, and glanced around. But she didn't recognize any of them as she walked towards the entrance hall. They were all just students now. They had no other purpose than that._

When Ginny woke from the dream with a start, she didn't know what to think or do. She could only stare bleakly at the ceiling. Standing on the stairs in the rain, she had been forced to grow up. But she hadn't, not really, not ever.

She had once told Harry that a person doesn't change instantly. A life-changing experience can be thrown at someone, but they still respond to it as the person they were the moment before. They still go to bed that night as the person they were that morning. It's when they wake up the next morning, and every morning after that, that they are changed.

So on the stairs, she had been forced to grow up. And the next morning she had been an adult. And the next morning after that, as well. But when she stepped out of the courtyard, she reverted back to being a child. She had stopped waking up responsible.

She had given away her hope, her faith, and her love. But she had forgotten the wrong things, and she had left the wrong things behind. She had taken responsibility for the wrong actions. And, in doing so, she had let her life become worthless, even as she treasured every breath.

So, no, she didn't cry; she had done enough of that. And when she fell back asleep, it was with a prayer on her lips. She prayed that she was right, and that when she woke up later that morning, and every morning after that, she will have changed.

…

The coffee flavored ice cream was melting on her living room table, as Ginny poured over the textbook on anxiety disorders that she had received that morning. It would be the fourth tome of psychology that she would have conquered since the mantel display. Three days, four books, two ruined pints of ice cream. She was trying not to dwell. Trying not to obsess.

Her irritation was not helped by the call she had gotten the day before from her boss. He had calmly explained to her that he had hired her because she was good, but that if she wasn't present and accounted for by the end of the week, he was going to find someone else who was good and also available. She could hardly blame him. Three weeks and the shaky reason of 'personal crisis' wasn't a very compelling argument to keep a psychiatrist in employ.

'It's hardly the end of the world,' she had told herself again and again. Her eyes darted toward the mantel place; the memory of the dead thing fasted there flashing through her mind. With a sigh, she turned the music up.

But a knock at the door kept her from returning her focus. Knowing the knock was only out of consideration, she sank back further into the couch and waited for Mike to come in. Instead, it was Hermione who entered.

She was wearing a simple white button up over black jeans, her hair pulled back, but not particularly neat. Ginny smiled lightly, "You go to the office like that?"

Hermione glanced down and laughed. "Hardly. I had meetings today, so I dressed up. Not a lot of protocol for a writer, and we're not in school anymore. If I'm going to be pouring over books all day, I like to be comfortable."

Ginny's smile widened a little bit. "Coffee?"

Hermione nodded. "Sure."

She followed Ginny into the kitchen. "I like what you've done with the place. The green is really cheery."

"Hm. I think I'll be painting again soon. Someone didn't approve, apparently."

Ginny handed a cup of coffee absently to Hermione, who took a sip. And choked. "When did you brew this?"

"Hmm, I'm not sure. What's wrong?" Ginny asked, as Hermione took the pot from her and emptied it into the sink.

"Well, for starters, it's cold."

Ginny stepped back to allow Hermione to take over, taking the old filter out of the machine and prepping a new batch.

"Sorry."

"So, I suppose you're wondering why I stopped by."

"You mean, you're not just here out of pity?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and smiled. "No. I have a proposition for you. Or really, I have the same proposition I had for you three months ago, when I asked you to come home."

"Three and a half months then," Ginny corrected with a smirk.

Hermione chuckled a bit, "Precisely."

"Well," Ginny began, "I'll listen this time, though I still have no idea what exactly it is you do."

"Mostly I research," Hermione said, pulling out a seat at the kitchen table. "People come to me with questions, and I answer them. Lately, though, Draco has been funding a more intensive research project on the greater effects of post-traumatic stress following the war. I deal with psychiatrists and patients and medi-wizards and economists. It's pretty varied and random on any given day, actually."

"Sounds like fun."

"It is… or rather, it can be. Most days it's actually pretty damned depressing."

Ginny chortled. "Welcome to my world."

"I think–" Hermione began, cutting herself off with the loud squeak of her chair across the floor as she stood. She walked back over to the counter, staring at the unfinished coffee machine. "I think I better understand why you left, I think I can better understand why you had to get away."

"I didn't leave because of my patients, Herms," Ginny said slowly. "I left because of me. I left because I thought I had to, but I should have stayed."

Hermione turned to face her. "Do you regret it then?"

Ginny couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Yes."

The coffee pot dinged.

"Let me take a look at your proposal," Ginny said slowly. "I don't have anything else to do right now."

...

Ginny had read over the report quickly; what Hermione had now was just a rough sketch of ideas that encompassed everything from the post war mass psyche to the effected micro economic developments.

"This is insane, Hermione."

"Too ambitious, you think?"

"For you? No. But it's… revolutionary. Especially for the wizarding world. Not to mention relevant."

"But it's not too bold?"

"Oh, it's bold. It's just, you're dealing with psychiatric theory that's still relatively controversial for Muggles. But… I think we're ready."

"So you would be willing to help?"

"Oh, I'd be more than willing, but I think…" Ginny bit her lip.

"What?" Hermione asked, bouncing a little.

Ginny smiled wanly, "I think that you should interview me, not ask me to help with the work. I'm too affected to really be of any use."

Hermione's lips pursed, and Ginny almost laughed. It was a look she had seen so many times before; Hermione had heard something she did not like, and it would not be easily eased.

"We're all affected, Ginny. You know that better than anyone. And while I would love to hear what you have to say, you will have a larger contribution than that."

Her tone brooked no argument. Ginny opened her mouth, but Hermione stopped any refute.

"Are you in?"

Ginny only paused for half a beat. "Can I work from home?"

...

Hermione was as excited as Ginny expected her to be. Ginny had not, however, expected her to have case files with her in a tidy brief case. Mountains of case files for Ginny, the 'psychiatric consult', to read over.

She also had not expected Hermione to put on another pot of coffee and wait for her to begin. Shaking her head, Ginny didn't really have any other choice but to start. She actually didn't mind, though, not even a little bit; it was better than toiling through texts purposelessly.

So she was quite enjoying herself, until Hermione glanced at her watch and said, "Harry and Ron will be here in about twenty minutes. Do you want to clean yourself up?"

"What?" Ginny asked, startled.

"Well, they were getting worried about you, stuck here. We've only been able to see you once since the… other night, so they're bringing dinner."

"Dinner? Did you tell Mike?"

Hermione glanced down at her lap. "Well, I wanted to, but Ron said it would probably be better to surprise him, you know. Make sure your Aurors can't say no."

"I'm not a prisoner here, Hermione," Ginny said, irritated for no reason whatsoever.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at her.

"Okay, maybe I am a little bit the prisoner."

"Go get cleaned up, you have ink on your cheek."

Ginny stood up warily. "On my way."

...

Mike's hand resting on her shoulder snapped Ginny out of her reverie. She swirled around to look at him, and he started slightly, before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The only thing that gave him away were his eyes — sharp and drawn to attention.

"I'm not going to hit you again," Ginny snapped irritably.

He grinned at her. "I know. I saw the look on your face after you did. It hurt, didn't it?"

"Yeah, should have guessed you'd have such a hard head."

His grin widened slightly and then faded. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Ginny sighed, turning back to the salad she was about to dress.

"Are you sure?" Mike asked. "I can tell them to leave. I know that you're uncomfortable."

Ginny's eyes darted towards the living room where she could hear Harry, Ron, and Hermione laughing. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not exactly," Mike said slowly, "But I can't imagine that you'd feel any other way."

"They're just trying to make me feel better," Ginny said. "I just wish that…"

"They had stayed away?"

"Exactly. But that's the three of them for you, rushing into any battle they see fit to. I can't tell them to stay away but…"

"Don't feel guilty," Mike said softly.

Ginny's mouth turned down as she reached for the pepper grinder. "Why would I feel guilty?"

"I'm just saying, it's perfectly natural to feel more comfortable with your friends around. You shouldn't feel bad for putting them in danger."

Ginny picked up the finished salad and turned towards him, a smile already in place. "I don't feel guilty."

Mike made a noncommittal noise and gestured towards the doorway. "After you."

Ginny reentered her living room, where her coffee table had been temporarily turned into a massive dining table. The lights were dimmed comfortably, and the three of them sat laughing.

"Food," Ron cried happily, as she placed the glass bowl on the table.

"Good to know you haven't changed too much," she said with a smile.

Harry laughed, "It would truly be astounding if Ron ever lost his appetite."

"Hasn't happened since fourth year, and I walked in on Ginny and Neville kissing. That was truly sickening."

Ginny threw a tomato at him, which bounced off his nose. He plucked it up with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. "Thanks, Gin. I'm starving."

"Well then, go on, brother darling, help yourself," she said, gesturing to the bowl with a wicked smirk.

He glanced at it slowly. "You didn't do anything to it… did you?"

"Probably not," Ginny said, her smirk widening.

Harry burst out laughing. "Go ahead, Ron, eat some."

Ron pushed his chair back a bit. "No, you go — Harry, Hermione."

"Right, love, let your darling wife share in the poison first," Hermione said tartly, as she picked up the servers.

"No offense."

"None taken, sweetheart."

Hermione took a generous bite after passing the servers to Ginny, and smiled. "Delicious."

Ron reached to snag the servers but Ginny pulled them out of his reach. "Wait your turn."

He pulled a face, and Ginny laughed as she heard him whimper a little bit.

Once they were all served and had started eating, the conversation drifted in and out of work, comments about Hogwarts, and, finally, questions about America.

"Have you thought at all about going back, Gin?" Ron asked. "Just until this whole thing blows over?"

Ginny's fork paused on its journey to her mouth. "No."

"Not at all?" Harry asked, sounding surprised.

"No," Ginny said. "Not at all. It seems like too much of a hassle, and who's to say he won't follow me. It's a big risk that I just don't feel like taking."

They were staring at her. All three of them.

"Maybe you should think about it," Harry said quietly.

"No," Ginny responded. Her voice was firm, but her eyes darted to the mantel once again. "I can't go back now."

"Why not?" Ron pressed. "You'd be safer."

"I might be safer, but it's not certain. And besides, I don't want to."

"Gin–"

"Ron," Hermione interrupted. "Let it go."

Thankfully, he did.

...

Harry entered the kitchen behind her silently, but she still knew that it was him, that he was there.

She turned with a smile and handed him the bottle of red wine she had come to get. He took it without returning the smile. "Ginny," he began softly, "Are you okay?"

"Of course," she said, ignoring the spike of irritation the best she could. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because a deranged psychopath is out to get you?"

She closed her eyes, tired then, "Harry..."

"No, you need to talk about it, you've been down all night."

"I don't want — it's not about that, okay? So let's just drop it."

"Is it about Malfoy, then? I heard he's been trying to talk to you," he said as she moved to brush past him. One of the wineglasses she had been holding slipped from her grip, and as both of them hurried to grab it, two sets of seeker reflexes; their hands bumped into one another and the glass shattered on the floor.

She stared at the broken glass forlornly, even as Harry blinked and knelt down, muttering a quick Reparo. A long crack still remained on the side, splintered forever.

"I was right, then," he said grumpily, as he set the glass on the counter and reached for another one. She swallowed heavily as she stared at him unseeingly.

"Oh, come on, Ginny," he said, his voice laced with irritation, "I may have been drunk the majority of the time; but I've known that you were in love with him since... since long before Ron told me the truth about Bellatrix's death."

"What?" she gasped, too surprised to consider denial.

His shoulders sank forward with his sigh, and he reached up to push his glasses back on his nose. "Your Patronus."

Ginny's brow crinkled as she stared at him. "But–"

"I always thought it was weird that it changed to a snake. I always thought that Patronuses don't change, even though I'd been told that they could. But yours changed so easily. One day it was a wild and energetic horse, the next it was a giant snake, still wild and energetic, just... less impulsive, I suppose. Even stranger that it was green. But I just figured that it was a Basilisk, and that you were projecting something of the past onto what you hoped would protect you. But then — I got a closer look. It's the same snake you saw him shoot at me, in your first year. The same snake that he can call from his wand.

"At first," he said with a shrug, still refusing to meet her eyes, "It was hard to accept. But I've gotten over that."

"You mean," Ginny said with a sigh, "You mean, you knew all along. You knew... that I was in love with him." Ginny didn't choke on the words. They flew from her chest, a burden she had forgotten she was carrying. She had to bite back the gasp after she spoke, the surprise tasting foreign on her tongue.

She couldn't believe that the first time she admitted it — out loud — was to Harry Potter.

Harry seemed equally surprised with her easy admittance: she caught a flash of it in his eyes before he went back to contemplating the white tiles of her kitchen floor. He answered after a resigned sighed, "Not at first. At first, I just thought you had gone a little crazy." Ginny's eyes narrowed. "You were hardly casting anymore, and I just figured that some part of you had been scarred. But... after a while, it became impossible to ignore. You used to call out his name during your nightmares."

"My nightmares," Ginny said drily.

"Yeah," Harry said, meeting her eyes, "But you never sounded scared when you said his name, just... worried."

Ginny sighed and leaned back against her refrigerator. "I'm sorry, Harry," she whispered.

He shrugged, but she could tell his nonchalance was deliberate. "You shouldn't be. I should be. I should have let you go, but knowing... knowing that you loved him, it just made me want to pull you even closer to me. I had always thought that you would be there for me, you know? Loving me. Wanting me. Needing me. But you had grown up. I resented your love for so long as being a mere infatuation, or hero-worship, or just something vapid and stupid, that by the time I had turned around, you were resenting it too."

Ginny closed her eyes; she wasn't sure how to take this. A part of her wanted to lash out, to hate him for this. A part of her ached with his words. Old pride and love being bashed to pieces with his confessions. But she couldn't hate him. Not for this. Not for being honest. "I never resented loving you, Harry. Never."

"But you resented me," he countered easily, his words almost gentle.

_Yes, I did._

"It's okay, Harry," she said looking up and catching the guilt in his own eyes. "We were all of us too young to know what was right and what was wrong. We were merely–"

"–Doing our best to do right by one another." Harry said with a smile.

She caught something in that, some hint of the past, and she smiled.

"Exactly," she said. She reached out and placed her hand over his, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Let's have a drink, shall we?"

Harry raised his eyebrow, "Are you sure you don't want to talk about what's bothering you?"

She made a face, and he chortled. "Definitely not."

When they walked back out into the living room Hermione and Ron were tangled in an embrace so passionate, Ginny almost dropped another wineglass. Harry cleared his throat politely, while Ginny shielded her face.

"My eyes!" she cried out. "My eyes!"

Ron glanced up at her, his face red and his grin cheeky. "Drama queen."

"Don't talk to me right now," Ginny said with a sniff, "You just burnt out my corneas."

"Consider it my retribution for Neville," Ron said smugly. Ginny opened her eyes in time to see Hermione elbow him in the ribs.

Her chortles joined everyone else's as Hermione stood up to take the bottle of wine from Harry. Ginny glanced around the room, then towards the door. She knew Michael was on the other side of it.

She tried to feel safe in her happiness, and for a moment, she succeeded. Then she surreptitiously checked her wards. She let her eyes linger on the spot above her mantle.

Hermione sat back down on Ron's lap, and Ginny watched as Ron said something in Hermione's ear. Harry caught the joke and laughed uproariously. It was just like being back at school. The three of them still clicked together, just right, and Ginny still felt cast deep into their shadows. But it hardly bothered her anymore; what the three of them had was too beautiful to resent now.

The words and jokes and stories flowed around the room with a soft subtlety that warmed her from the inside out. Ginny took her wine glass, once again full, and sat down on the floor, sipping the heavy liquid with a small smile tugging at her lips.

She didn't notice its presence there; if she had, she surely would have banished it with more foreboding thoughts. Yet, even so, it hovered, never fully forming.

...

_The clicking of her heels across flagstones was the only sound in her ears. With a snap, she opened her eyes, and the world rocketed to her in forced clarity. The ceiling of the wide empty room was low, so low that it had to be supported by magic. The air was fierce, cold, and dangerous, and fear licked across her conscious. She fought to stop, to look around, but her feet carried her forward as gracefully as a dancer across a stage. Her heart hammered and her breath quickened as she struggled, but still forward she was propelled. _

_Helplessly, she glanced down as her hands glided across the sides of her white skirt to straighten it. They left messy red splotches across her front. _

_Her face twisted into as smile as she flicked her tongue across her lips, tasting blood there. It was cold as it slid down her throat. Panic rose within her, and inside, she writhed. It was a horrible feeling, not knowing._

_Her feet didn't slow down as she approached the doors, and a hard shove opened them into a brilliant rose garden. She kicked off her white heels to tread barefoot across the soft ground. The sun spayed across the grass, all warmth and glitter, and she smiled shaking her hair back from her face. For a moment she calmed, the smell of spring and the familiar feeling of grass between her toes easing her trembling nerves. _

_But a horrible terror surrounded her as her feet followed the sound of cursing coming from her left. She turned the corner of the building. Draco stood with his back to her, impatiently waving his wand. _

"_God damn it, already!" He yelled. _

_Ginny's lips turned up into a smirk and she stepped towards him, placing her fingers in the small of his back. "Oh, Draco, you're doing it all wrong." Inside, she whimpered._

_Draco looked down at her in bafflement, his face contorted and blurry. She glanced away — down at the man before them on the ground, his pale grey robes open, his face tired and afraid. She smiled at him benevolently, and he flinched, his long blonde hair falling in front of his face. _

"_Like this," she said, raising her own wand. Ginny slammed her eyes shut again, feeling her mouth open against her will. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" _

...

Ginny's neck ached. Her muscles were tired. Her brain was pounding in her skull. And she had bitten all of her nails to the quick. Again. She tried not to groan as she threw another pile case files onto the floor. One more thing for Hermione to pat her on the back about.

Just yesterday, in fact, Hermione had told her that she was 'her most dedicated and hardworking consultant.' And then she had beamed that stupid Hermione beam and flounced away. Or it would have been a flounce, had Hermione known how to flounce. But she didn't — thank Merlin.

The case files she was going through now were just a portion of the records Hermione had collected, and they all told the exact same story. War is bad. It fucks people up.

Hermione wanted her to be able to write about this authoritatively and intelligently, and somehow, Ginny didn't think what she had was going to cut it.

She banged her head on the table, and then tried to stand, growling to herself as her attempt failed. Both of her legs were asleep, and the tingling had moved up her spine and towards he shoulder.

With a yelp, she felt to world rock forward, and she tumbled on to the couch. Her front door banged open and Mike appeared, wand at the ready.

"Jesus," she said with a glower, "Spaz much?"

He glanced around, taking the room into account and noting the fact that she was alone.

"Put that away," she said snappily, "You're going to put someone's eye out."

He smirked at her as his wand disappeared, and walked over. "You okay?" But it wasn't a nice question, not with the way his lips curled mockingly over his words, and his big blue eyes brightened with laughter.

"I'm fine. I was just still for too long."

"Hmm," he said, taking a seat at the end.

"What are you doing?" she asked irritably.

"Sitting. I'm bored."

"And you'd like me to entertain you?"

"Well," he said with a smile, "If it's not too much trouble."

She huffed at him, fighting the smile that was starting to edge in around her eyes. His grin was just too infectious.

"We could watch a movie," she suggested after a long moment of him drumming his fingers on her couch arm.

"I've seen everything you've got."

"You could help me go through case files."

"Yeah," he said sarcastically, "That sounds fun."

"Well, what did you have in mind?"

"Hmm," he pretended to think about it, but Ginny already knew the words that he would say.

She stood up, on much less shaky legs and looked down at him. "You want me to make you lunch."

"That sounds great!" he replied, admirably trying to hide his smugness. "Would you mind?"

"Not at all," Ginny drawled, rolling her eyes.

...

"So I was thinking," Mike said, as he stood up to take his plate to the sink.

"Really, do you get paid extra for that?"

He shot her an unimpressed glance over his shoulder. "Cute."

She just shrugged.

"Maybe it's time you got out for a bit."

Ginny's heart jumped a little bit. "What?"

The hammering in her chest skidded about awkwardly, half torn between fear and hope.

"Well, it's been almost two weeks of you not leaving this apartment. You haven't even had any friends over since that one dinner party. I'm just a little worried about you."

"Isn't it your job to worry about me?"

Mike looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Well, no. It's my job to worry about your safety. Now I'm just worried about you."

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"I haven't seen you eat anything but junk food in a week. You redefine the word alcoholic. And all you ever do is pour over case files that depress you."

"I am not an alcoholic."

He made a disparaging noise, and she shot him a glare. "I'm not! Well, not really. It's just… I hate being stuck inside all the time, so that makes it worse."

"I know," he said slowly, "So I was thinking a little dinner party. Not here, just somewhere comfortable, somewhere safe that we could apparate in and apparate out again. Then you could see your friends and just hang out for a bit."

Ginny found herself smiling wistfully at the thought. "You're crazy," she said finally.

"That's what Damien said."

"I wont go if Damien doesn't agree to it."

"Oh, he agreed," Mike said with a smirk, "Just as soon as I told him you were drinking more than him."

"Damien drinks?" Ginny asked worriedly.

"Not on the job," Mike said rolling his eyes. "But honestly, I'd drink every day if I looked like him. I'd have to, just to look myself in the face."

"That's funny," Ginny said, still irritated for reasons she couldn't understand, "I drink everyday anyway when I think about looking you in the face."

"Still cute," Mike said with a smirk. "So, do you want to go?"

"I don't know… it seems sort of stupid."

"Yes. But then again, so is drinking yourself into a coma while waiting for the bad guy to come."

Ginny glanced over his shoulder at her collection of empty liquor bottles. It had been steadily growing.

"It would be nice to get out for a bit."

"Great," Mike said with a smile, the bounce back in him at once. "Pansy's hosting a dinner party at seven tomorrow night."

She raised an eyebrow. "Thanks for the advanced notice."

"Hey, it's enough time to shave your legs."

Ginny threw a fork at him. It bounced off his chest aimlessly.

...

_The sound of people talking was so loud that all she could hear was dull echoes. Around the room, different groups of people were scattered, their heads bent close together, conversing, laughing, enjoying themselves. It made her so angry._

_There was something in the noise that only she seemed to recognize. A steady thrumming, tired and shaky and almost not there at all. She told herself again that she was imagining it. The champagne flute touched her cracked lips, the bubbles burned the back of her throat, but even that seemed to take on a dry rhythm, flitting in and out of time. _

_Then suddenly a ghost burned to life beside her, his black hair and green eyes shining bright. "Come, now, Gin," Harry whispered against her bare shoulder, "You don't seem to be having any fun at all."_

"_Of course I am, Harry," she said wistfully, "It's just the same people every time, at every show."_

"_Eh, that's the art world for you. Do you not like the artist?"_

"_Well, she's alright, but there's no passion. No–"_

"_Fire?"_

"_Exactly."_

"_So you want them to burn?" There was something wicked in his voice — something pure. She turned to glance at him, and for a moment, his eyes were catlike. Her sad face was mirrored in the vertical slits. _

"_Yes," she said softly. "I want them to burn as I do."_

"_It only takes a breath to start a fire," Harry whispered back, his voice now trembling against her ear. It was sick with heat and desire. "But you'll have to help me."_

_Ginny nodded, watching as Harry quickly carried a bundle of straw over to the nearest group. "Come on, Gin."_

_She downed the rest of her champagne, and followed, helping him spread the dried grass and sticks around the floor. The straw caught in her stockings and in her shoes, and tickled. She couldn't hold back the laugh. _

"_Gin! What are you doing?" _

_Ginny glanced over at the voice and saw that Draco stood next to Harry now. The two were looking at her — one with anger, the other with pity. "This is no laughing matter. They have to burn."_

_But she was too far away now, and she couldn't tell who was talking. She answered both of them with a giggle, knocking over a candle-stand right into the mess of hay. _

_The flames brushed by her legs, and she felt the rapid burn, scorching hot. With a shriek, she ran, chased by fire, back to the bar. Her breath caught in her throat and the sweet smell of burning grass filled her nose, her lungs, everywhere. Her shriek was joined with others, as the people around her slowed their conversations to swipe at the gathering flames on their jackets. _

"_I'm sorry," she called, as she caught Draco's arm. "I don't know what's happening, please make it stop!"_

_Draco frowned at her. "But there's nothing I can do Gin. This is where we burn."_

_Tears gathered in her eyes, sliding down her cheeks only to evaporate in the heat. "But–"_

"_Shh…" he said, pulling her into his arms. "It's okay. Watch."_

_He pointed to a man standing a few meters away, jumping up and down. The flames were in his hair now, and he turned to look at her as he screamed. And then he split open, right down the center of his face, and cracked open. There was nothing inside, just an empty shell of a person, and now Ginny was screaming too._

"_Gin," Harry called with a laugh from over Draco's shoulder. "Isn't this exactly as you'd always imagined it?" And then with a gleeful spin, he too shattered, cracking across his waist. His top half fell to the ground, splitting apart and Ginny closed her eyes against Draco's shoulders. She didn't want to see what she knew was still there; his legs standing like the broken half of a doll. _

"_Gin," Draco said again. "It's alright, you told me yourself. We are all of us hollow."_

_And then she too was splitting across, as if she was being fired in too hot a kiln. The crack started at her palm and then traveled up her arm. She watched her right side crumble, stepping back away from Draco and into the flames. _

"_I was right," she whispered, looking up at him in surprise. _

_He smiled benevolently. "You were."_

_And then the world split apart._

...

"Oh, look, Pansy, Ginny brought wine!" Neville said with a triumphant grin, as he stepped forward to take the bottle from Ginny.

He smiled at her and then wrapped her in a hug. "I've missed you."

"You as well," she replied with an easy grin.

Pansy bounced across the floor to Ginny and made as if to hug her, but then held her at arm's length. "You've gained weight," she said with a smirk. Ginny blushed a little bit, opening her mouth to protest, but Pansy cut her off. "Looks good on you. Maybe one day you'll even have tits."

Her blush turned into a glare, and she stepped back out of Pansy's grip. "Bitch. Where'd my alcohol go?"

"Wishing you had brought the good stuff now?" Pansy said with a smirk.

"Yes, let me just pop home and get it."

"Nev, doll, if she goes back to her house to get bourbon, do I win?"

"No, Pans, darling," Neville responded from across the room. His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Ginny glanced between the two of them in amusement. "You were betting on the type of alcohol I'd bring?"

"Of course," Pansy said, "Had to do something to make light of your oncoming liver failure."

"My liver is fine!" Ginny protested feebly.

"Hmm. You want a drink?"

"Yes. Please." Ginny said with a laugh as she followed Pansy into the kitchen.

The smell of food was much stronger in here, a mix of spices and chicken that was absolutely mouth watering. She glanced at the pots on the stove, one being stirred by a wooden spoon, another simmering slowly. A thermometer by the modified oven blinked the words "Almost DONE", and Ginny recognized it. Her mother had the exact same one. "So, who else is coming?" she asked, slowly, trying not to watch to animated spatula as it fried garlic over a magical heat.

Pansy shot Mike a look through the doorway. He was sitting on the couch in his normal way, looking distracted and aloof, but Ginny knew he was paying attention.

"Just you and Draco."

"Draco?" Ginny's face heated slightly at the mentioning, though whether it was from embarrassment or longing, she didn't know.

"Yeah… that okay?" Pansy asked slowly.

"Of course," Ginny said with a forced smile. Pansy could tell though; she could always tell. "How about that drink, then?" Ginny asked with a hesitant chuckle.

Pansy smirked and rolled her eyes. "I'll get the good stuff."

...

When the knock at the door sounded, Ginny fought to kept the blush from rising to her cheeks. She tried to straighten out her outfit, when she remembered she was wearing jeans and a wrinkled shirt. With a nervous sigh, she ran through her mental list of possible apologies she could give him and ways she should act.

She settled on vague modesty, until he set the mood. Pansy opened the door, and Ginny watched from the corner of her eyes as Draco came in. It took her a moment to realize that she hadn't seen the two of them together since before Pansy fled. Draco was wearing a ghost's smile as he brushed her bangs from her eyes, and Pansy was grinning with too many teeth. Next to one anther now, Ginny could see something that made her heart soar with happiness even as it dropped to her stomach. They had moved on.

They didn't spend everyday regretting their past choices or making themselves the victim. They had become adults, making decisions that they didn't agonize over or wish to take back. They were built of more than just their past.

They had forgiven one another.

"Gin," Neville said, calling her back, and she turned to look at he and Mike.

They were both chuckling, and Ginny smiled in response. "Sorry," she said softly, as Pansy and Draco moved across the room.

She glanced over at Draco, who stood stiffly only a few feet away. But is was as if they were in two separate worlds, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

Ginny sighed, glancing back at Neville. He smiled at her encouragingly, and Ginny ran through her mental list again, trying not to look again at the set shoulders of a man going into battle.

...

"Are you going to talk to me?" Ginny asked, irritation slipping into her voice.

Draco glanced up at her, his face cold. His fingers lingered over the letters on the counter, and Ginny thought for a moment that he might have come in here in the hopes that she would follow. "What would you like me to say?"

"Are you still mad about the other night?" she asked, more than a little bit ashamed.

"Among other things," he said, without any real feeling.

She felt her mouth open and close aimlessly as she desperately sought the right words. But there was nothing. Finally, she settled lamely on, "I'm sorry."

His eyebrow arched imperiously, and the coldness left his face to be replaced by something Ginny hated even more — absolute emptiness. She almost recoiled from the look; it was one she hadn't seen directed at her in years, not since before the war. Not since he hated her.

"I was afraid and …confused," she continued. She could hear Mike, Pansy, and Neville laughing in the other room, a strangely distant sound, completely removed from the brightly lit kitchen where she and Draco stood now. The relaxation that the wine and the food and the dim dining room had forced onto her was fading quickly. It was too bright in here, and she shuffled anxiously. "Why are you so upset, anyway?" she pressed.

The reaction was not what she expected. Of all things, she didn't think he would get angry. But she caught the way his jaw had tightened and his fists had clenched. "That is just so like you, Ginevra," he said, his voice a mixture of fury and resignation.

"What do you mean?" she said, hardly noticing the dry psychiatric tone hedging on the question.

"You… you just disregard everything, and then act as if your actions have no meaning," he seethed. "It's the same now as it ever was. You're bloody fucking foolish, and so fucking self-righteous."

Ginny flinched, but not from the words, more from the fact that he was swearing. Draco hardly ever swore and the words sounded even dirtier from his lips. His anger terrified her; she had no idea what it meant.

"It was evident, even then," he said, and Ginny felt his eyes burning into her skull as she stared at the floor. "Stupid bint had to run out onto the battlefield, and now, just ignoring all the warnings until you couldn't anymore. You have no idea how to confront any situation, but you act like you do, I mean, it's even your fucking job to tell people how to, and then you do stupid shit like wandering around in the middle of the night or convincing your Aurors that you just 'have to leave the house'."

Ginny flushed, angered and embarrassed. "What could have happened to Neville, Gin? What if Rodolphus were to attack right now? What would happen to him then? To Pansy? You just never fucking think! And–"

"That's enough, Draco," Ginny said firmly, her voice low. Her chest was heaving up and down, breaths being ripped from her lungs as if she had forgotten how to properly exhale.

She finally chanced a look up, only to find him glaring down at her for a moment, and then he sighed. "You're right, of course," he said resentfully, though his voice softened slightly. "But you have no idea… it's just like then, you have no idea how what you do affects people."

His hands twitched against his side, and Ginny glanced down, terrified by the fierceness in his eyes.

"You have no idea how to say goodbye," he said, his voice even softer now. His hand rose then, his fingers ghosting across her cheek.

She slowly raised her eyes to his. "Hypocrite," she said harshly.

He flinched and his hand dropped. Then he shrugged. "Perhaps," was all he said, as he started to walk away.

"You left first!" she cried angrily. The voices in the dining room fell silent, only to rise again swiftly.

Draco stilled in the doorway, half in shadow, but didn't turn around.

Ginny clenched her fists, tears filling the edges of her vision. She blinked them away. "You walked into my life without a care, you followed me into my world. And then you just… disappeared, without an explanation, just like always. And now you've walked back in with the same disregard for how you fuck everything up, and what? What do you want?"

"Is that what this is all about?" he snapped, turning around. "Some stupid form of resentment? Are you putting everyone in danger because you're mad at me?"

"Of course not," Ginny cried, "I just don't understand why–"

He cut her off with a sharp look. "What did it matter, anyway? You were with Potter, if I recall and–"

"I would have left him!" Ginny shouted.

Silence. Absolute, terrible silence, and then Draco sneered at her. His face contorted into an ugly mess of harsh lines and sharp teeth beneath curled lips. He opened his mouth, but Ginny was faster.

"How stupid could you possibly be, Draco?" she snapped, her voice still above normal volume. "I would have done anything for you. I killed her for you, and I fell apart because of it."

Draco's face turned absolutely ashen, his sneer hanging there, as if he had completely forgotten about it — about everything. "How could you throw that in my face?" he asked wretchedly, his voice torn. "I never asked you to do it. I never would have wanted you to."

"I'm not throwing it in your face, Draco, I'm merely stating a fact. I got you out of prison and you just–"

"Oh, I see," he said, the sneer remembered, "That's why you got me out."

"Why are you distorting this, Draco?" she cried. "You're making me out to be some sort of horrible person, but you know me, you know me. And you left me — you just left! And you didn't even thank me, as if I didn't matter at all, as if it didn't matter at all."

"Thank you?" he said snidely, "What should I have thanked you for?"

Ginny gasped sharply, her strength sliding from her body suddenly. Her knees weakened, and she trembled. She barely noticed him taking a step towards her, as she steadied herself on the counter.

"Gin," he began contritely, "I…"

"No," she said slowly, "No. You're right. You shouldn't have thanked me; that's not why I did it anyway, that's just–" Ginny shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the haze. "I was just… I just wish… that you had said something. I… I wanted to talk to you about it."

She shook her head again, and looked up at him without really seeing him at all. "You're right, of course, you're right. I'm sorry. For the other night and for fighting with you." Ginny would have been shocked at the sound of her voice, if she had been thinking at all. "I didn't come in here to fight with you. I'm sorry."

Draco stared at her, as if he was the one searching for words now. But Ginny had heard enough. Of all the things that she would have thought he resented her for, saving him was not one of them. "I'm going to go now," she said slowly. "I'm… going to go."

She turned, hardly hearing his whispered, "Be safe," as she walked past him blindly.

But she did hear it, and it made her insides crawl uncomfortably.

...

Ginny waved good-bye to Pansy over her shoulder distractedly, and then linked arms with Michael. Damien was following at a distance of forty feet or so, as he liked.

She chatted about nothing, forcing her mouth to keep moving, forcing the barrage of fears and the beckoning depression away, as they walked down the quiet London streets. Her teeth were clenched though, her grip just a tad bit too severe. She hadn't even had to beg; Michael had offered to let them walk for a bit.

Thank god, Ginny spotted a Tesco that was still open, and she quickened her pace. "I need some cigs," she explained, tugging on Michael's arm.

He kept up with her, but stopped just outside the door. "I'll wait."

She nodded, ignoring the pity in his eyes, and stepped into the brightly lit, fluorescent space. With a desperate smile, she stepped up to the side counter, thankful of the emptiness. "A pack of Camel Blue."

The kid behind the counter nodded and plopped the pack down. She handed over a fiver and change, and then left the shop quickly. Mike was nowhere to be seen. Ginny frowned, and peered around the side of the building, into the narrow alley.

Perhaps he went for a quick piss, she thought sullenly, glancing around for Damien. No sign of him either, but then again, there never was.

Ginny leaned against the wall and sighed wearily as she opened the fresh pack. It was such a relief to be rid of them. She was half tempted just to stick out her hand and grab the first taxi, head back to her apartment, and follow the night with lots and lots of hard liquor. But Draco's words came back to her, and she tried to think about her actions.

It had been so wonderful to be out for the night, to have the chance to pretend that things were normal; and for the evening end in such a way… she found herself shaking her head regretfully, and glanced back towards Pansy's front door. It wasn't far, still visible in the eerie glow of the streetlamps, and she wanted so badly to return.

With a sinking stomach, she peered into the alley again, and listened for Mike. A slight scuffling noise, inhuman, and Ginny felt propelled forward. Her fingers rested on her wand in her pocket, and she took her first tentative steps. Slowly, she thought desperately, carefully, but still the steps seemed too loud.

She rolled her eyes. What had happened to her protectors, anyway? Ginny scanned the alley, but there was no sign of Mike. One more step, and then she turned around, ready to give up. She carefully listened once more for sounds that weren't there. And then the darkness descended.

Soft and almost welcoming, at first. It felt relaxing, as if she was just standing and breathing with her eyes closed. But when she blinked and opened them again, nothing changed.

Her heart spiked, and she wheeled around, there, in the distance, was the flickering Tesco sign. She stepped towards it, when a sound — rough, grating, indescribable in nature, almost a growl — made her turn.

She swallowed heavily, trying to breathe. The darkness was consuming her now, filling her lungs, biting at her soul. Taking on its own persona and becoming a being prying at her, shoving her this way and that. Panic. She took a deep breath, and turned. Nothing was worth this.

But there was no light the way she came, and her heart jumped into her throat. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn. She tried to steady her breathing, to no avail. She stood still for a few moments and then tried to step forward. But there was nothing. Nothing in front of her, nothing behind her. Just fear. Absolute terror.

Her heart sped, and her brain practically shut down. She couldn't decide. She didn't know what to do. She didn't even know how to do it.

"It is terrifying, isn't it?" a voice said softly in the darkness. Male. Deep, spiced, amused.

She turned. But why did it matter which way she faced? Then she screamed; it sounded so quiet. She took a breath, gathered it all in her lungs and screamed again, the noise reverberating off of nothing and not coming back to her.

"This is what we were left with," the voice said again. She had never heard it before, and she knew why. "The sounds of screaming — they were the most dreadful part. Well, almost. Before they got rid of the Dementors, they set up a few halls with just the blackness."

The voice was beautiful, in it's own right. Hypnotizing. It was all that she could hear, all that was around her. The voice, strangely enough, broke up the blackness. In that moment, it was everything. She loved it and hated it with her whole being. She existed for it.

And when he paused, time stretched out before her, like an endless, infinite, tangible thing. The darkness and the time passing were everything. Were all she could know. Wet tears were streaking down her face, but she couldn't feel them scalding her cheeks. It was hours, seconds, decades, mere moments, before the voice spoke again. She exhaled heavily, but felt no air tickle her lips.

"All we could hear was the screaming. Screams and screams and screams. We thought that it would be bad, we moaned about it in our cells. We joked about it half-heartedly, all thinking we would be stronger, better. We dreamed about it at night. We feared the torture that was coming. Some of us, I'd imagine, were even relieved, at first, after all that we had dreamt up."

A sigh, seeming incongruous. Ginny still couldn't place the sound. Even her steps were silent, as she stumbled cautiously forward. Her direction was undetectable. The only thing she knew was the pounding of her heart. And the voice. The voice.

"But all our screams eventually joined the empty chorus. Anything but the silence. Gnawing, ungratifying, undistorted silence. There weren't even echoes. No boundaries but the blackness. Nowhere to go but towards it, further into it."

Ginny paused. Was he right? By all accounts, she should have hit a wall by now. The terror spiked in her, and she fell to her knees. What was there to do now? Trapped.

"You know it, too, don't you?" He whispered. "You see truth." There was laughter in the voice, finally something to latch onto.

"What will you do?" she asked, rasping as if her voice had gone years without use. Maybe it had.

"What will I do?"

"After you kill me."

"Hmm," he murmured. "To be honest, I actually hadn't thought much of it. After I clean up this mess, I'll submit, I suppose. I can't imagine that they could do much worse to me than they have already done, so I'll probably just let myself die. I've been waiting to. Been waiting too long."

Ginny growled. "Then why don't you just let yourself go?"

He laughed. "I probably should, I suppose. But where would the fun in that be? There is so much to still accomplish — little girl. So many debts to still be paid."

An illusion, Ginny thought, it must all be an illusion. She could overcome that. She bit her lip, and forced herself to think. The ground was hard beneath her shins, and she focused on that. It should be harsh, coarse, and dirty. Cobbled. But it was smooth and warm, solid. Her brain pushed on the edges, and she let the magic flow out of her.

And then she heard laughter. Wicked and callous. "That's cute, dear. But if you have time to fight it, than there's time for other things too."

There was no light when he spoke the word, but she felt the curse rip through her, and she screamed. The pain was endless in its hunger. It bit and snapped and tore through her, ricocheting around her insides.

It wasn't fair, she thought, as the Cruciatus ripped through her body, fresh and hot with rage. It wasn't fair because her silenced screams felt too much like defeat.

She sobbed into the silence, cried out to him, and finally, fell quiet in her own agony. Her brain overloaded on the pain, and she felt the excess endorphins release, flooding her body with pleasure as her brain continued to wail. It was too much for too long.

She was just reaching the end of her tether, when the pain ended suddenly. She felt disgusted with the relief, but there was something else. He was breathing hard as well. The only other sound in the darkness. She latched onto his weakness, as she sobbed and gasped for breath. Prayed for the ability to use it, and then blacked out.

...

_Yellow light hit pale hair, and grey eyes turned to her. "Are you ready?"_

_"NO!" she screamed, as the clouds circled the sun. "NO!"_

_Her dream demon turned to her and smiled, malicious and cat-like. It was no longer a smile she associated with him. "Do you think it matters?"_

_Blood dripped from his chest, a diagonal, and Ginny stared at it, pressing her hands to her own chest to stop the bleeding. Warm and gooey. Fresh. _

_"Will it help?"_

...

When she snapped to, he was still laughing, and the darkness was still around her. She breathed. No time had passed. She pulled herself up. She thought about the dream. But no one was coming to save her. No one ever had. Anger. She thought about the sun. She prayed to a god she had never believed in. Fury.

"Your dreams are so fascinating, little one," he said softly. "So mixed. So confused. I think I would let you sleep forever, just to step inside them."

"How?" she asked, trying to find firmness, as she struggled to stand. Everything ached, everything felt torn apart. There was warm blood soaking the front of her shirt.

"I can see everything now," he said. "I can see you."

"No," she growled. "You can't see a damned thing."

She focused on the sun. She prayed for it. She focused on her blood dripping onto the floor. And she stayed down.

The ground. She could feel her blood on the ground, seeping into the stone, mixing with the grit.

"You want to die," he said. "I can't blame you. But there is little the darkness won't steal from you, over time. Little it won't destroy."

"Darkness," Ginny whispered. Her fingers brushed against something cold, and she struggled to grasp it. Over and over it passed through her shaking hand, until finally, she felt a sharp edge, and she grabbed on. A crushed can, solid. She clutched it fiercely, still praying. She was kneeling there, on the ground in the alley. She still couldn't see a bloody thing, but she could feel the blackness oozing from her lungs, sliding over her skin. "I think it's time I quit smoking," she said bitterly.

"What was that — little girl?" he asked.

She had him, she thought triumphantly. She knew where he was. She reached up and pressed her left hand against her chest, feeling the warm blood seeping from her skin.

Then she lunged, pulling out her wand and transfiguring it into a knife as she leapt forward. Her body connected with something solid, something human, and she heard laughter, even as her sight edged back. There was less resistance than she thought there would be; the knife had slid into him like butter. The darkness slid away at the edges, and a face slowly faded into view.

His face, still cruel and beautiful, just as she remembered it from all the pictures in the papers. All of her dreams. There was the long scar along his cheek, the fierce, unafraid eyes, and the strong brow. Those sharp teeth bared by his sick smile.

For a moment, they just stared at one another, and then he giggled. His arms reached up, almost slow motion, to grip her shoulders. With a jerk, he shoved her away, and rolled her over. She was too shocked to fight back much, as she stared at her wand protruding from his chest. He laughed again, a half-choked sound, as blood so dark it looked black, seeped from his mouth.

"You would have understood," he gasped, and she could feel him shaking against her; he stared down at her unseeing. "You would have understood — if you had just let me... You would have understood."

She stared at him, and then bucked up, throwing his body from hers as if it was nothing. Anger was coursing through her again, and she stood. She glanced around the alley, dark, but naturally so, and she reached down to pull her wand from his chest. The handle returned to wood in her palm, and she rotated it slowly.

She met his dark eyes in silence. He looked back, still fierce, challenging her.

"Avada Kedavra," she whispered. The words fell from her tongue heavily, leaving a terrible aftertaste; and she momentarily reveled in the bright light that seemed almost like hope. Her palm seared with the familiar heat, and she sank to her knees with a sigh.

"It never ceases, does it?" she asked softly, before she collapsed, right there in the alley, on top of the rubbish. And, no, she did not dream.

* * *

Thanks for reading, guys! And a huge thank you to all those who reviewed! xxx


	7. Chapter 7: Barefoot

Chapter 7: Barefoot

* * *

_Come ride with me,  
__Through the veins of history,  
__I'll show you how god,  
__Falls asleep on the job.  
__And how can we win,  
__When fools can be kings,  
__Don't waste your time,  
__Or time will waste you.  
_-Muse, Knights of Caledonia

* * *

Ginny woke when she heard the snap. The horrid snapping of sturdy wood and the sharp crackles and pops that followed it. "No!" she cried out, too late, she realized as she stared at the two pieces of her wand clutched in familiar hands. Then she felt a slow draining of energy, as if a part of her soul had been severed.

"Why?" she cried out, struggling to sit up as she fought the ache in her body and weariness that had settled over her. She reached out to touch the broken pieces as she met Draco's eyes.

He looked down at her, not harshly, but definitely without tenderness. "The Aurors will be here any second, Gin," he whispered. "I didn't know when you'd wake up. And that curse…"

He reached for her then, pulling her into a more upright position. "Are you okay?" Desperation.

"Yes," she said, "I think the Crucio just reopened my chest. But it's not deep."

His fingers tightened around her arms at the mention of Cruciatus. "I'm so sorry, Gin."

"I know," she said, for once not angry at all, "It's okay. How did you find me?"

"I left not long after you did. I heard you screaming and I felt the darkness — how did you fight it off?"

She closed her eyes, and pressed her face into his chest as the pops around them signaled the arrival of backup. "I don't know," she whispered. _I thought of you._ "I'm sorry."

Draco was pulling them both to standing, though, turning her to face the Aurors. The first man saw her; she recognized shock, confusion, and suspicion all on his face. "Miss Weasley, are you okay?"

It was beginning to rain, she realized, feeling the mist on her cheek. She smiled in relief. "I'm fine. Rodolphus Lestrange is there," she said gesturing lightly, before stumbling. Draco steadied her. "I killed him."

Eyes widened. "Did he–" a voice began, as bodies swarmed around them to get a closer look.

"Draco," she said softly, "I want to go home."

"You should really go to the hospital…"

"I'm okay," Ginny whispered, "I just need to…" She was clutching his chest now, hardly standing. She needed to get away from this, out of the alley, away from these people. And more than that, she wanted to get away with Draco. She wanted to tell him all of the things that she had held back during their argument. She wanted to lay it all out there for him. Finally.

A rather pompous sounding pop came from the mouth of the alley, and Ginny started when she heard Percy call her name. He hurried down the alley, and tried to pry her from Draco's arms, edging the detective out of the way.

"Percy, don't," Ginny mumbled, gripping Draco even more tightly in fear. She glanced up at Draco's face, trying to ask him not to let her go. He wouldn't look at her. She bit her lip and looked at her brother instead.

"Are you okay?" Percy asked, something unreadable flashing in his eyes, as he took in the scene.

"I'm fine," she said softly, "I killed him. Rodolphous Lestrange is dead."

She briefly caught a glimpse of one of the Aurors scribbling furiously on his pad, before she buried her face in Draco's chest again. She tried to focus on her breathing, on slowing down her heart, but she wasn't having much luck.

That was when the first reporter arrived. Flash bubs were going off before the Aurors could stop it. Dazed, Ginny smiled, reminded of Colin's quick anxiety, even as she leaned further into Draco. She couldn't keep her eyes open now.

She blinked and forced herself to take in the confused look of the detective, obviously wanting to question her, as another half dozen Aurors scampered about casting charms and such.

"Was he alone?" the detective finally asked.

"Yes," Ginny said. "He was alone, all alone."

The detective nodded and opened his mouth, and closed it again, looking at her with what might have been worry.

Ginny's eyes were closing again and again. She needed sleep, but she couldn't get her bearings. How long had the whole thing taken? Had she left Pansy's hours ago, or mere minutes?

"Draco," she said, "What time is it?"

He shifted her slightly, and she took a moment to just burry her face in his chest again, now that the angle was right. He smelled so good, too good. She found it hard to believe herself, but she felt that desire spiking within her, and with a bitter smirk, she thought, _Sex would certainly offer a great distraction right now._

"Half twelve," Draco said finally, and Ginny felt cleansed by his voice.

A wave of doubt washed over her as she thought about the last time she had been this close to him. She wanted again to apologize, but she dashed that thought. Instead she tried to let herself sink into the embrace, tried to let herself pretend that there was only good between them. That this was by choice.

_Half twelve_, she mentally calculated. She must have only been out for a few minutes.

"Will you take me home?" she asked, hoping he realized how much she meant by that.

But any response he would have given was cut off by Percy calling her name. "Ginny, there's a Mediwitch here. Come on now, sit down." He slowly pried her away from Draco and pushed her onto a well-cushioned bench.

Draco's fingers tightened on her shoulder. "Just a little while longer, Gin."

…

She drifted in and out, hardly being able to keep her bearings, but she remembered the bright green robes of the Healer who closed the scar on her chest with a simple charm. She could hear Percy shouting orders, and the other men making snide comments when he couldn't hear. She gave several statements, which probably never gave quite the full picture, because even she couldn't get it straight in her head.

She heard Draco talking to the Aurors, but she could never fully make out the words; and when she did finally succumb to the temptation to rest her head against his thigh as he stood next to her, his fingers slid gently into her hair.

Lights flashed and people chattered, and through the moving bodies, sometimes, she could just barely make out Lestrange's fallen form.

Finally the din died down, and Draco pulled away from her. She opened her eyes to protest, only to find him kneeling in front of her, his grey eyes open and honest. "Can you stand?"

"I think so," she said softly, struggling to her feet. She stumbled, and then he was there, sweeping her into his arms. She sighed, closing her eyes. An overwhelming desire to just stay in his arms forever flooded her chest, and she tried to ignore everything as she lay against him.

After too short a moment, she felt the familiar shifting of side-along apparation, and then the warmth of her climate-controlled apartment.

In the light, she could see all the blood over him now, staining the pale blue shirt he was wearing. "I'm sorry about your shirt," she said as he carried her to her bedroom.

He chuckled without humor. "If I were you, I would apologize about the smell instead."

Ginny frowned, looking up at his face to catch his smirk as he gently rested her on the bed. Then she smelled herself, and pulled a face.

"I guess that's what I get for falling asleep in an alley."

He shrugged, the smirk still in place, though it hardly covered the emotions on his face. Worry, fear, weariness, and, even stranger, sympathy.

Empathy, she corrected, after a moment of consideration.

"I'm going to call your brother. Just lie here a moment and try not to get into any trouble."

She raised an eyebrow at his withdrawing form, and then she leaned forward to unzip one of her boots. The muscle ache and the weariness overtook her suddenly, and she lay back, too tired to even take it off.

She heard Draco come back into the room a moment later, heard him pause. She didn't open her eyes, and she hoped she didn't imagine the press of his lips, cool and lingering, against her forehead.

...

When Ginny woke the next morning, her chest ached a bit, but that was the only thing that felt off. A glance at the clock told her that it was half nine and she closed her eyes. She didn't feel tired at all, despite the fact that she had slept less than six hours.

She smelled — that was the first thing she noticed. The second was that someone had thoughtfully put her in her pajamas. The third was that her chest was healed, the scar still pink and puffy.

The bed shifted under her, and she turned, catching sight of bright pale hair, looking yellow in the light coming through the window. She was almost as shocked by the sight of him, lying in her bed in just trousers and an old T-shirt, as she was by the fact that she hadn't noticed him _first_.

Her hand tentatively went out and brushed gently across his hair. It was fine and smooth, and she smiled. He murmured in his sleep and rolled over to face her, and she felt her throat catch as she took him in. Even in his sleep, he looked unsatisfied; he was frowning, his brow wrinkled as if he had a headache. The sooty smudges under his eyes remained, and she wondered how much sleep it would take to wash them away.

The front of the shirt read: _Gryffindor Seeker_ in blazing letters that still glittered and winked spastically. She hadn't recast the charm in so long. But she could still remember when Charlie had first worn it, some summer, long ago.

She couldn't have been much older than four, and the memory had the tarnished affect of being half-real and half-filled in from stories and embellishments. But in it, the sun streamed into the Burrow through the kitchen window, and the air smelled of summer. Charlie held her in his lap, telling her that one day she too would be a great Gryffindor seeker. She had giggled and pressed her hands to the front of the shirt, and the letters had lit up. They had sparkled red and gold. Charlie had laughed with glee, pulling her in for a hug.

The tears welled in her eyes now, and even though her side started to go numb, she couldn't bring herself to turn away.

Instead she reached out and touched the front of the shirt, feeling the heat beneath it that hinted at Draco's presence. _Why was she always surprised by his warmth?_ The large 'G' glittered for her, winking red and gold, and she smiled tentatively.

She didn't miss the irony of Draco wearing the shirt, and for just a moment, she wondered if he had thought it was Harry's.

She smirked lightly at that, and then finally turned away, wiping her eyes and refusing to look back at the sleeping boy as she hastened to her shower.

...

The entire evening before rushed back at her as she stood underneath the hot spray, and she carefully walked herself through it. She told herself repeatedly, as her fingers dug into her scalp, that she wasn't afraid. That it was past her. That he was dead.

She almost dropped the bottle of conditioner when that thought crossed her mind. He was dead. She killed him. And she didn't feel guilty. Well, not _that_ guilty. She had torn apart a family, albeit, not the most healthy of families, for sure, but she had destroyed the lives of two people. She had taken away their futures. With a slow sigh, she leaned her forehead against the cool tile.

Then she held her palm up. She stared at the reddened skin, chapped and burned, as the spray stung her eyes. It was a subtle reminder, but not one she needed. When Draco woke up, she would have him heal it.

When she finally felt clean again, she stepped out of the shower and dried her hair — magically — because she wanted him to sleep. She dressed slowly and then crept towards her kitchen.

Five minutes later, Draco appeared. He stared at her silently while she looked back. She had absolutely no words for what she was feeling.

She knew that there were a great many things that she wanted to say. There were even more that she wanted to do. But she also knew that now was not the time to be having these thoughts. It was not the time to want him, to wish he would stay, to think about the way that she liked him barefoot in her kitchen, unkempt.

"Coffee?" she finally asked.

He nodded, and his voice was hedged with a desperate tension when he spoke, "Please." She smiled to herself as she stood to get him a mug. _Not a morning person._

"Thank you," she said softly, as she handed him the mug of steaming coffee.

He inhaled with a small smile and then took a long sip. "I think I'm the one who should be saying that," he said, taking a seat at her tiny kitchen table.

Ginny sat across from him. "Really, though, thank you," she repeated.

He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed. Only twenty-three and still so elegant.

Ginny took a seat and stared at her hands, fidgeting. "For staying, I mean. And, for the rest, as well, of course. Just... thank you."

"You're welcome," he said softly, and though she wanted to meet his eyes, she couldn't, not just yet.

"Why did you?"

"Why did I what?"

"Stay."

"You asked me to."

"Oh," Ginny said, trying to hide her disappointment. "Thank you."

"Stop that," he said suddenly, and her hands stilled. She placed them on the table. "I meant, stop thanking me. But the hands thing, too, is very irritating."

She bit her lip, studying the white tiled floor. She didn't know how to say what she wanted to say. "I am grateful, though."

He reached out and took her hand, she glanced up and stared at him staring at her palm. "You're wand really hates that curse," he said with slight amusement as he pressed the tip of his wand to the burned patch of flesh. Cool tingles coursed from his wand to her skin, and she shivered, watching as the skin twisted and smoothed, returning to normal. He had broken her wand, she thought before jerking her hand away. She would never hold it again.

She flinched at the thought and then made the mistake of letting her eyes linger on the front of Charlie's shirt. She stared at it. 'Gryffindor Seeker' it proclaimed boldly. That's what Charlie had been, after all. Her entire family thought of him that way. The seeker. The amazing. Quick thinking, quick witted. Charlie had been a sort of symbol in their family. Bill was the rebel, Fred and George were the eccentrics, Ron was the Hero, Percy was their mother's conversational piece, but Charlie... _Charlie_ was the one that they told their friends about. That they lauded. It was because he was just so _cool_.

Ginny smiled softly, wondering, not for the first time, how she could be the only girl in the family and still be the one that was the most boring. She was just Ginny. Ginny the... girl.

"Gin?" Draco said suddenly, pulling her from her reverie. "What's wrong?"

"Oh," she said. Her eyes were surprisingly dry. "Nothing, I was just thinking about Charlie."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. That was his shirt."

Draco closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "Oh thank god. I was praying it wasn't Potter's."

Ginny burst out laughing.

After a moment, she calmed herself, and met Draco's eyes. She found herself smiling playfully, enjoying the way the cold winter light was streaming in through the window, outside a mere facsimile of a sunny day, but inside the steam was rising from her coffee cup, Draco's eyes seemed warm, and she was laughing at memories of her brother.

"You know," she said slowly, meeting his eyes across the table as they sipped their coffee, "When I decided to go to America, it was sudden. There was no real reason, I just wanted to get away. I wanted to flee. But I also wanted to stay."

Draco's index finger traced the rim of the ceramic mug slowly. "What made you leave?"

"Hmm. A multitude of things. But there was one decisive moment... I had been pondering the idea for a few days, and Pansy and I went out for a drink. We were talking, somewhere between our fourth and fifth rounds, when she started talking about you."

Draco's lips twitched into a half-smile, a smile he always carried around in regards to Pansy. Ginny liked the look of it, even if it made her feel the tiniest bit jealous.

"She said that she was glad she was no longer being pressured to marry you. But that she wished she had." Draco started — just a bit — at that. "She hadn't wanted you to leave, and she was sure you would never come back. That was when I decided I was leaving."

"Why?" he asked softly.

Ginny took a moment to stare at him, took a moment to think about everything and nothing. He was hesitating, holding back, waiting for something. She wanted to swallow her words, but then the image of him, leaning against the kitchen doorframe flashed through her mind. It was so different than last night; it had to be. She felt no anger towards him now, no sadness. Just… need. She needed him to open his eyes and see. And she was just so sick of waiting.

"I was so... bitter, when I heard that. That you wouldn't be coming back. I hadn't been able to speak to you, to thank you. You were always in my thoughts, but you were just one step ahead of me. I needed to get away, so I ran."

"Gin..." he stood suddenly, moving away from the table under the pretense of getting more coffee. His hand stilled before it reached the pot. "You understand why I had to leave, right?"

Ginny stood, leaned against the table, ran her hands through her hair. She stared at the ends idly for a moment, searching for split ends, and then sighed. "No, not really."

Draco's back still faced her, and she stared for a moment as his shoulders stopped rising. He used to do that before as well — stop breathing if he was thinking too hard about something. She watched and waited; he would speak when he was ready.

"At the end of the war, I was a symbol. The last Malfoy. Harry Potter's scolded puppy. People stared at me — with pity, with hatred, with disdain." _And respect,_ Ginny added mentally. "After a week, I just knew it was time to get away. I was tired of being followed everywhere, and I was tired of… of England. And then there was what you did for me… I couldn't face it. I couldn't face you."

Ginny wanted to say something in response to that, but she had nothing to say. How was she to explain that she had felt the same way without seeming too bitter?

"I lied before," Draco continued after he finally poured more coffee into his mug. "I remember every moment I was in Azkaban. Every morning and every night." Ginny's jaw tightened at that, and she shivered. "It was like being trapped in there for twenty years, not twenty days. And because there was still question about whether the remaining Death Eaters would be put on trial, or just automatically sentenced to life, I was sequestered off to a part of the prison that didn't use Dementors. It was too cruel, they thought. They were wrong." Draco's voice, his perfect, strong, confident voice hitched at that. And Ginny felt her heart tighten.

"So I left. Switzerland was neutral during the war. They are always neutral. And money is something so easily understood. People have it, or they don't. So that's where I went. I'm sorry I didn't — I couldn't — say goodbye."

Ginny stepped forward, once, and then again. She wrapped her arms around Draco from behind, resting her head between his shoulder blades and laying her hands across his chest. One of his hands rested lightly on top of hers. "I'm sorry that I refused to see you," he whispered, "And I should have thanked you, for... for everything, but…"

Ginny waited, holding him a little tighter. His hand dropped to his side. "But?" she pressed.

"I was terrified of talking to you. I never wanted… I never wanted to get you involved. Looking back, I can see everything I ever did. I can understand why I did it. But I still wish I could have changed it, could have prevented all of this. Could have stopped you from–"

"Draco," she said firmly, as she stepped away, "Stop it. I'm fine. I made my own choices, and you are not to blame."

He turned around and shot her a look. _Hypocrite_ it said. "You're not to blame, either, you know. In fact, the exact opposite is true. You saved my life. Twice. Actually… even more than that." He reached out and brushed her fringe away from her eyes. "You've saved me dozens of times."

She stared into his eyes sadly. She wasn't sure why she felt so sad, perhaps because she had been hoping that they would never have this conversation. Perhaps because she was tired of looking back. Or maybe just because she was afraid that if they said all of their apologies, said all of their thank you's, there would be nothing left for them to say. Nothing left waiting for them.

She opened her mouth then, wanting to say something because he was waiting for her to respond. And then the words, words she had never planned to say tumbled from her lips. "I was so furious–when you left. And I hated you for avoiding me. First in Azkaban, then at the press conference. I meant what I said last night, you know," –Draco tensed– "I would have left him for you. You were in my head, constantly nagging me, but I just couldn't get close enough." Draco had glanced away and wouldn't meet her eyes now, but she saw his fingers tighten on the handle of his mug.

"I didn't realize it — not right away, but I was so looking forward to it, to the end, when we could sit together and talk without the war hanging over us, without all those stupid indoctrinated thoughts. But then you disappeared, and it was like... it was like I was walking around in daze. I finished school, I went to work, I went out and had fun, but you were always there."

She stared at him defensively, as he stared at her shoulder. She waited for him to say _something_, _anything_, but he remained silent. Anger bubbled beneath the surface now, and she let out a hot breath.

"You were always there, because you weren't. Every room I've ever walked into, I've looked for you, and not seeing you... I was always waiting for you." _I love you._

She hardly realized that she had been reaching towards him until she caught sight of her own hand, hovering over his shoulder. She paused, debating, and then gently set her hand on the skin of his upper arm.

His skin was warm beneath her touch, and she had to bite back a smile. He flinched slightly, but she didn't pull away.

"What is it you are trying to say?" he asked, turning. She almost jumped at the look on his face. It was completely devoid of emotions.

She had to remind herself to be brave as she drawled sarcastically, "What do you think?" But she didn't wait for a response as she pushed herself up to her tiptoes and pulled him towards her. A moment passed, just her staring into his eyes, almost asking for permission. His expression didn't change, and she growled slightly before she kissed him.

And, oh, what a kiss.

He responded instantly, and it was nothing like when she had kissed him before, drunk on fear and adrenaline. Before, it hadn't been a choice; it had been an outlet. Before they had both been angry and high-strung and she had just been looking for a something to kick. Before it had been…

Now, though, now he was pulling her into his arms, hauling her up against his chest and letting his fingers curl through her hair. How long had she wanted this? _Needed_ this?

He tasted of coffee and underneath that — something else, something undeniably Draco, honey and warmth, smooth and sweet. She smiled as she ran her fingers through his hair and pulled him even closer. It was slow and wanting, gentle and apologetic.

There were no fireworks, no floating, no earth-shattering explosions, just his soft lips against her own and a feeling of rightness that was so much more than those broken promises of tragic beauty. Her stomach felt queasy, her heart hammered, and her palms started to sweat.

She would have liked to say that they both tasted of cigarettes and youth, that they had snuck off to avoid the judgments of others. But those days had been over so long ago, and she could feel the rough stubble on his chin, and when she pulled back — if she ever did — she knew that she would see the soft lines at the sides of his eyes.

There was a question in that moment, as they held onto each other, their lips meeting, caressing. _Is it too late?_ she asked him. _Have we wasted too much time running away from the past?_

His hand cupped the back of her head, his thumb tracing her jaw line, and she sighed, breaking the kiss. He pulled away only slightly, still close enough to kiss her again, and she could see the startled look in his eyes.

She bit her lip, wanting to ask him the questions she had been asking herself, but she lost the train of thought when he smiled. It was a smile she had been waiting her whole life to see, she realized. A smile that could set her free. _I love you, you prat_, she thought fervently. But she couldn't say it. Not yet.

He rested his forehead on hers and clasped his hands together loosely behind her back. "I've been waiting a long time to do that," he said softly, finally.

"Hmm," she murmured, leaning forward to taste the skin beneath his ear. She delighted in his shiver. "Well maybe you shouldn't have waited quite so long."

"Maybe," he said evenly.

"What else have you been waiting to do?" she whispered, wondering if the skin of his collarbone tasted as good as the skin under his ear.

He chuckled at her, and she closed her eyes, relishing the way his chest reverberated against her own.

A finger under her chin tilted her face back and he kissed her again, not nearly as gently this time.

And even as she succumbed to his kisses, lost herself in that moment, that feeling, a single thought kept racing through her head. Over and over again. One word on repeat. One reaffirmation.

_Finally._

...

Draco pressed light kisses to her jaw, and when he pulled away, Ginny looked up at him. She smiled as she took in the sight, skin flushed, hair rumpled. He looked gorgeous. Sometimes, she forgot that he was more than just the person that put her at peace — grounded her. Sometimes she forgot that he was more than just the person that had saved her. But she could never forget how attracted she was to him, how his pale coloring and aristocratic charm made a fire burn within her. She knew that most people couldn't understand it — sure his nose was just a little bit too long, his chin just a little bit too pointy — but by now, she had been in love with him so long, the imperfections didn't seem imperfect anymore.

She traced his slanted jaw with her tongue, delighting in the way his hands tightened on her hips. She bit down, maybe a bit too harshly, on the skin right _there_ — that amazing place where his jaw met his neck, and all of a sudden, his lips were on hers with a ferocity she could only give in to.

He turned them around, hoisted her on to her counter, and then _there she was_. Her hands were buried in his hair, his were wrapped around her as he tried to devour her. His lips fought with hers, a battle she kept trying to surrender to, but he wouldn't let her. And finally, after all the years of wanting him, she finally knew: he wanted her too.

With a groan, she broke the kiss, her bottom lip still caught between his teeth, her neck open for his exploration. As soon as his lips touched her jaw, her knees tightened around him, and she felt the swell building between her thighs. Fuck. She wanted him.

She tugged lightly on Charlie's shirt, hoping he would get the hint, and she watched with a smile as he removed it carefully, placing it on the counter. She stared at it momentarily, before glancing back at him and his bare chest. She traced the lines on his chest, and he grinned at her.

Then she was kissing him again, the bare skin of his back smooth beneath her fingers. She could feel a slight stickiness building on his skin, heat and sweat burning through her blood.

Her hips twitched towards him, almost bringing her off the counter, and he groaned and pulled away panting heavily.

He rested his forehead against her own, and she took a long moment to catch her breath. "Oh, god, Draco," she whispered.

"I know."

"Did you ever…"

"Did I ever what?"

"Imagine this?"

He chuckled silently. "More often than I should admit."

"But did you ever imagine…"

"What?"

"That it would feel this good."

"I didn't think anything could ever feel this good."

For a second Ginny's eyes prickled with tears, and she pulled back to look at his face. He looked amazingly honest, and she grinned. "Me neither. But I hoped."

He grinned cryptically, and Ginny kissed him again lightly.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"Amazing," she breathed, gripping him closer to her as she pressed small kisses to his bared shoulder.

She felt him chuckle, and she smiled dazedly. "That's not exactly what I meant. How is your chest?"

"Just fine," she said, still unable to completely focus. She brushed her lips lightly across his forehead, just because she could. His eyelids slid closed and his lips curved into a smile. She tasted the skin above his lips, and then he was kissing her again — desperate and hungry.

Her legs locked around his waist, and she urged him backwards. Without breaking the kiss, he pulled her to him and up off the counter. She moaned heavily, as his tongue ran across the inside of her lip.

"The bedroom," she whispered against his lips, trying to pull him even closer, but suddenly, he balked. His hands loosened, and she slid down his body, feeling his obvious erection between her thighs.

"Gin…" he said patiently, "I hardly think that–"

"What?"

"That this is a good idea."

She snorted, despite herself, and reached up and grabbed his head. She pulled him down for another heavy kiss, and then broke away with a soft groan. "Come on," she said and pulled him with her, a giddy smile still plastered to her face.

She paused at her bedroom door and glanced at him. Doubts suddenly filled her. She wanted him so badly, but how was she supposed to proceed in a situation like this? How was she supposed to act when the person that she loves and who loves her (she thinks) walks back into her life? When she met him, so long ago, she had been totally inexperienced, and they had only just kissed for the first time — the first time that counted — moments ago. Had he even had the time to contemplate having sex with her? Had he wasted time thinking about it as she had? Or worse, what if he had, and she didn't measure up?

Biting her lower lip, she led him into her bedroom and over to the bed. He looked at her blankly; so she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down to kiss him.

He kissed her back reluctantly, but when her hands slid to the waistband of his trousers, he jerked away suddenly. Ginny smiled at the strange expression crossing his face. The mixture of doubt, disbelief, and just a little bit of trepidation was surely mirrored on her own.

"Gin–"

"Draco," she said firmly, "I–" _love you_ "–want you. I do. I have for years."

It didn't seem to take much more than that. He pulled her up and into his arms harshly. His lips found her own in an intense kiss that was so slow, she felt her insides melt away. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, and Ginny was lost, totally and utterly, to the desire that overtook her. He pressed closer, closer and closer, falling forward into her, it seemed, as she kissed him hungrily, tangling her hands in his hair, and when he pushed her back towards the bed, she didn't even stop to tremble with fear.

His skin was disastrously perfect, she noticed, pale and sensually smooth. Her mouth watered to taste it. She smiled as his lips traced her neck, her shirt falling away, and traveled downward. His knee parted her thighs as he scooted them further onto the bed.

"Gin," he whispered suddenly, breaking the trance.

She stared into his eyes cautiously, not wanting to see. His face was flushed and his lips already swollen. Pale hair fell in front of his eyes, and she brushed it aside. "What's wrong?"

"I just…" he trailed off and kissed her again, "Maybe we should take things slowly," he said.

Ginny chortled. "Really?" she asked, wrapping one of her legs around his hip, and bringing his body closer. His hair fell back across his half-lidded eyes and she could tell he really, really didn't want to stop. "I think we've taken it slowly enough, don't you?"

He shook against her with more silent laughter. "I suppose so."

She reached up to trace his smile.

"But seriously," Draco said, trying to pull back a little. Her leg held him in place. "You're half-dazed from your treatments, not to mention emotionally shaken, and this thing should start off with at least some dinner first, maybe even–"

"Draco," she said with as much exasperation as she could muster, "Just, shut up please." And she kissed him hard on the mouth and dug her fingers into his naked back.

He seemed to be holding back still, but when she moaned against his lips, she felt his hand slide down her thigh, gently massaging circles. His lips traveled down her neck, mapping the planes, and she shook beneath the kisses. Then he was untying the drawstring of her pajama bottoms, and sliding them off, his body following.

He stood and surveyed her, wearing nothing but green cotton knickers and a matching bra, from the end of the bed. He shook his head in what looked like amazement. "Green. It had to be green, didn't it?" His look turned accusatory, "You knew this would happen, didn't you?"

"A girl can dream, can't she?"

He closed his eyes, a slight smile hovering on his lips.

She propped herself up on her elbows. "You like what you see?"

He didn't respond.

"Then get down here, Malfoy, and do something about it."

He laughed out loud at that; and, for just a moment, as he crawled onto the bed with a predatory smirk, she froze. She had never heard him laugh before — not a real laugh — and she swore to herself that she would never, ever rest until she heard it again and again and again.

But then his lips were on her ribcage, his hair tickling her. She pulled him closer, and her hands snaked to his trousers. He bit her neck when she reached inside and wrapped her hands around him. She shoved his trousers down. And gasped when his mouth found her nipple. Her fingers tangled in his hair as she rose off the bed to meet him, and he was laughing against her skin.

"You're laughing at me," she said. "Why?"

"Not at you," he whispered, as he pulled down her pants. "With you."

She glanced up at him, trying to tell what he was thinking to no avail, and then she kissed him, wrapping her legs around his naked hips and pressing herself against him. He moaned into her mouth, and then he was pushing into her, pulling her knee up, and sinking deeper and deeper. She gasped with him.

And they were both still. She opened her eyes meeting his. "What are you waiting for?" she asked impatiently, "I swear to god, Draco–"

He cut her off with a kiss and a chuckle, and then rocked against her gently. She felt her soul expiring as he slowly moved in and out of her, eliciting a hiss with each movement. It was an infinite number of little deaths she felt, as he pressed her further into the mattress, pressed himself further into her.

All of her was about him, as if she was a thousand pages of just his name, a million prayers of just 'Draco'. To Draco, for Draco, of Draco. She was lost to him, and she had never in her life felt so complete. He was filling her up when she hadn't known she was empty. He was erasing her fears when she hadn't known she was terrified. He was taking her apart, tearing her to pieces, and reassembling her into something better, something whole.

She wanted to scream harder or faster or both, but she couldn't bring herself to break the careful rhythm. He even took that thought away from her, as the pressure built, her entire body tensing, her fingers sinking into his back, her legs gripping his hips tightly. She felt her climax in the distance, fierce and strong, marching forward steadily. Her entire body was about to explode, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere but further, and she couldn't deny it. She let everything go, his name torn from her lips in a choking gasp that was a shout.

He pushed into her one last time, swelling inside of her, and she vaguely heard his own cry as the world imploded, black spots dancing in her eyes.

Draco slumped against her, and she opened her eyes slowly. Something like vertigo overtook her, and she was reminded that she was somehow still corporally attached to this world.

He was shaking on top of her, as she was shaking underneath. He was still inside of her, and her muscles clenched around him involuntarily. He groaned a little against her shoulder.

"Gin…"

She combed her fingers through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. She was waiting, patiently, for the rest of the world to come back to her. It was taking a while.

"Draco," she responded with a breathy sigh.

He kissed her shoulder. "That was…" he said.

"Mmm."

"That's all you've got?"

"Yup," she said cheekily, every last ounce of energy slowly draining away from her.

He pulled himself up a little bit, and then kissed her–heartbreakingly gently–as he slipped out of her. She gasped against his mouth as cold air hit her, and he smiled, pulling away.

Then she closed her eyes, and curled up on her side. "Sleep now," she murmured. Draco muttered in assent, and she felt his arms wrap around her.

Then she was asleep.

...

A strange clanging sound was what woke her up a second time that day. It was a… doorbell? She had a doorbell? Draco was at her back, breathing softly against her ear. She smiled, as she tried to pull away slightly. His arms tightened around her. She rubbed her eyes and glanced at the clock. It was close to noon, and she cursed silently. The doorbell clanged again.

She wondered how long she had been asleep, as Ginny shifted forward, pulling Draco's arms away from her body. "Stay," he whispered, a simple monotone that was both a plea and an admission. The simplicity of it as gentle as a caress and Ginny found herself leaning back even as she tried to get up.

It had felt like years, not mere minutes, and she wanted to fall back into the bed and stay there forever, just to wake up occasionally in his arms. Last night was too long ago to waste the time speaking on it.

"The Aurors," she whispered, leaning over to press her lips to his temple.

"Fuck 'em," he said, catching her before she could pull away and kissing her, long and soft.

"You know that I have to talk to them," she said with forced admonition. She brushed her lips across his once more, just a small reminder. "I'll be back. You… please stay in here."

One of his pale eyebrows arched elegantly. "Ashamed of me already, Miss Weasley?" he drawled.

She felt herself paling, "No, it's not that! It's just–"

The doorbell clanged again.

Draco shot her a look she didn't fully understand. "Go," he whispered.

She nodded, quickly shoving her feet through a pair of jeans and grabbing a bra and a shirt.

It was Draco's shirt from last night, cleaned and charmed black, she realized, too late. She slid the buttons closed as she hurried to the door.

She jerked it open, and then stared. The two men looked at her closely, both of whom she only vaguely recognized.

"Miss Weasley?"

"Yes, hello," Ginny said breathlessly. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, I only just woke up."

The two Aurors nodded and stepped inside. Ginny stepped back to leave them more room, crinkling her nose at the poor manners. Though, she supposed, it was fair.

"How are you faring, after last night?" the slightly older one asked.

His politeness was forced, and Ginny frowned. He couldn't have been much older than thirty-five, but he looked beaten and tired. His partner looked about the same. Ginny vaguely recognized them from the scene, and her frown deepened.

She should try to be nice; they had to be exhausted, but she wasn't feeling overly compelled. They introduced themselves after a long moment of silence. Detectives Rogers and Kirkbride.

"I'll be fine," she said softly. "Would you like some coffee?"

Kirkbride, the younger one with an air of untouched youth clinging to him, nodded with a small smile. She walked towards the kitchen and let them wait as she rinsed the coffee pot and set up another batch.

She started when she turned around; they had followed her into the kitchen, but she forced an apologetic smiled. "So what happened to my, I mean, to Damien and Mike last night?"

The older one – Rogers – sighed heavily. "Auror Smithson is at St. Mungo's, he has yet to regain consciousness. Auror Ventressca has yet to be found and is believed to be dead."

Ginny felt her eyes widen, and she nodded distractedly as her stomach sank. Her fingers shook slightly as she poured the coffee; she wasn't exactly sure what she was supposed to be feeling or thinking. She handed them their mugs.

"Let's go into the living room."

They nodded and she followed them out, watching them adjust their cloaks and robes as they sat down. They moved together, as if they had spent too long in each other's presence, and their identity was one in the same. They also sort of looked the same, Ginny thought, tilting her head. Same part of the hair, same pale skin and pale eyes. Same tan overcloaks. They even had the same five o'clock shadow tracing their jaws, despite the fact that it was hardly noon.

She pulled a chair over and sat down across from them.

"So, Miss Weasley, why don't you tell us exactly what happened last night."

Ginny took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, we left my friend Pansy's house–"

"Pansy Parkinson?" Rogers interrupted.

"Weren't the Parkinsons in the inner circle?" Kirkbride asked.

"Well, yes," Ginny said hastily as she watched Kirkbride scribble something on his pad. "But Pansy herself was never aligned with Voldemort." The Aurors stiffened at the name. "And, besides," Ginny continued, "Both of her parents were murdered in her sixth year when they _betrayed_ Voldemort."

Their faces did not change, and they continued to stare at her–Kirkbride with suspicion and Rogers with disgust. "What happened next?"

"Well, Pansy lives in a Muggle area, and it was a nice night, so we decided to walk to the nearest Apparition point."

Rogers raised an eyebrow, "That's not protocol."

Ginny found herself glaring back. "Mike and I were walking ahead and Damien was a bit behind. Anyway, Mike and I stopped at a Tesco–"

"What's a 'Tesco'?" Kirkbride asked curiously.

"It's a Muggle grocery store," Ginny said with a sigh. Kirkbride did not look like this answered any of his questions. Ginny continued, "I went in and bought some cigarettes; Mike waited outside. When I came out Mike was gone."

Ginny took a deep breath, about to continue when Rogers shot her a look. "And you didn't find this suspicious at all? The fact that he was just missing?"

"I just figured…" Ginny began.

"Figured what?"

"That he had popped into the alley to relieve himself. He drank a lot at dinner."

"He was drinking?" Rogers asked gruffly.

"Water," Ginny said quickly. "Either way, I peered into the alley, and I heard a noise. It was a strange sound, and I just… couldn't ignore it. So I went into the alley. That was when Lestrange attacked."

"What did he do?" Kirkbride asked.

"He cast some sort of charm or curse on me. It was an illusion, there was just blackness." Ginny shuddered involuntarily.

"Blackness?" Kirkbride asked, still curious. But Ginny saw the tightening around Rogers' eyes; he recognized the curse.

"He then cast the Cruciatus on me. Afterwards, he was tired, and I managed to find him and transfigure my wand into a knife and stab him."

Ginny had closed her eyes while speaking, digging her nails into her palms to steady her voice.

"He didn't take your wand?" Rogers asked suspiciously.

Ginny clenched her teeth. She was being interrogated; she hated being interrogated. "No, I don't think he thought it necessary. The blackness is… very effective."

"And yet you shook it off," Rogers said.

"Barely," Ginny responded, her voice crisp as frost, "I only managed because he was tired from torturing me."

Kirkbride scribbled a few things down. Rogers leaned forward, glaring at her menacingly. "May I see your wand?"

Ginny's breath caught in her throat, and she nodded, reaching for her pocket. It wasn't there. Of course it wasn't. Draco had snapped it in half. "I have to go get it," she said quietly, wishing she could cry.

She started to stand, but Kirkbride gasped suddenly. She glanced at his sallow face and then turned around, dreading what she was about to see.

Draco looked angrier than she had ever seen him. His eyes were dark and his muscles tense. He was leaning, shirtless and barefoot, against the doorframe of her bedroom, and despite the fact that her mouth watered, she wanted to hit him over the head. Didn't he realize that this would only complicate things further?

He was holding his hand out to her, and in his palm rested the two halves of her broken wand. She stood shakily and walked over to take them. "I thought I asked you to stay in there," she hissed.

He shot her a look that clearly said, _Oh, please, as if._

"You could have at least gotten dressed."

"You're wearing my shirt," he said with a small smirk.

She colored, all the way down her neck. His smirk just widened.

She turned back to the Detectives. "Draco Malfoy," she said softly, "These are Detectives Rogers and Kirkbride."

He nodded, his jaw tight, "Detectives."

Ginny handed over her wand and watched blankly as Draco went into the kitchen and came back a few moments later to stand behind Ginny's chair, coffee in hand.

"It's broken," Rogers said. _No shit._

"Yes," Ginny said, unable to keep the cold menace from her voice, "It broke when I fell. I haven't managed to replace it yet."

"We can't do a _Priori_ on a broken wand."

Ginny's own response was cut off by Draco's cold one; "Why would you need to cast _Priori Incantatem_?"

Kirkbride actually stuttered. "To-to verify her story, of course."

"Is she a suspect of some sort?" Draco continued. Ginny could swear that she heard thunder outside.

"Well…" Rogers hedged.

"I should hope not," Draco barked. "As we all recall, she was given an Auror detail to keep her safe from Rodolphus Lestrange. Because of your department's own failure, she was forced into incredible danger and had to kill to save her own life. You should be issuing a formal Ministry apology, not interrogating the victim."

Ginny could feel the heat rising from Draco, and she turned to look at him, gaping at the sight. He was furious. She thought he had been mad before, but it was nothing compared to now. Rogers and Kirkbride were shrinking away from him, whether they realized it or not.

"Just because you have managed somehow to work your way into the good graces of some of the ministry higher ups, _Mister_ Malfoy, does not give you the right to question us," Rogers said, angry now as well.

Ginny watched as Draco composed himself. "You're right," he said smoothly. "Continue, _gentlemen_."

Rogers spluttered. Draco stepped forward. "This is not an interrogation. You came for her statement, and you've received it. Now you can go."

"Draco," Ginny hissed. He hardly spared her a glance. She suddenly felt like a fourth-wheel in her own interview.

Rogers slanted an annoyed glance at his partner; and Ginny couldn't help it, she smirked. "We simply need to corroborate her story, to make sure she isn't…" Rogers said, trailing off.

Draco raised his eyebrows imperiously. "Isn't what?" he asked, and Ginny frowned. He almost sounded confused. "Isn't a Death Eater?"

Kirkbride looked slightly abashed, but it was Rogers who spoke. "No, of course not," he said, and the tone of his voice was hard, angry almost, and definitely accusatory this time. Ginny didn't believe him at all. "However, there are some… loose ends."

Her spine stiffened with anger. "Like what?"

"There was Dark Magic residue all over the alleyway."

"Lestrange cast Cruciatus as well as whatever spell causes the darkness," Ginny responded sarcastically, "Surely that _couldn't_ have caused it."

"There was residue from more than one person."

Ginny balked at that. She really hadn't considered that.

"The spell she used to transfigure her wand is a dark spell, but in the circumstances, she is justified by the code one twenty–"

Rogers broke Draco off with a wave of a hand, "There was more to it than that. One reckless level seven transfiguration wouldn't have done that much damage."

"Perhaps it was the force she used to dismiss the blackness," Draco said, a rather weak defense, Ginny thought. "No one knows quite how she did it."

Ginny opened her mouth, but Draco's hand tightened on her shoulder again.

"Sometimes that which is Dark is used to fight Darkness," he continued.

Kirkbride sneered, "And _you'd_ know all about that, wouldn't you? The Dark Lord's death may have cleansed you, but we know all about the mark you used to wear."

Ginny tensed at that, her eyes automatically glancing towards Draco's left forearm. It was bare, as she already knew it would be, but the skin there was different from the rest of him. Almost too perfect–like the fresh skin of a baby. His hand on her shoulder tightened, and she relaxed. It didn't matter, anyway. She had already known.

"Draco Malfoy was cleared long ago of all charges. His lands and properties were returned to him in good faith," Ginny snapped, glaring at Kirkbride.

Rogers, obviously sensing this had gotten far away from the topic at hand, held up his hands. It wasn't exactly a gesture of surrender, rather one of appeasement.

"Either way, Miss Weasley, you are not being accused of anything, we are merely… concerned. You disappeared for several years. You have friends who are–" Ginny crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows "–suspect. You…"

Rogers trailed off.

"What does this have to do with the events of last night?" Draco asked, seeming resigned all of a sudden.

"She murdered someone, and that must be answered for."

"I killed an escaped Death Eater in self-defense!" Ginny snapped in exasperation.

"It is not a matter of who," Kirkbride said, his tone returning to the offensively officious, "but rather of how."

"And why," Roger said.

Ginny blinked in confusion, grateful this time when Draco answered for her. "She has given you her statement."

Rogers sighed and shook his head. "It's not…" He glanced from Ginny to Draco and back again before he seemed to give up. "I suppose that's all for now."

Kirkbride looked confused, and still a little angry, but he nodded, standing as Rogers stood.

"We'll be seeing you, Miss Weasley," Rogers said gruffly. Much to her chagrin, Ginny trembled a bit at the implied promise in his voice.

Draco extended his hand, and for a moment, Ginny thought it was for a handshake. But then Detective Rogers, looking resigned, placed the two pieces of Ginny's wand back into Draco's palm.

The Aurors gathered up their things, and Ginny watched as Kirkbride closed his tiny little notepad. Then they disappeared through her front door. She turned her eyes back to Draco. She was both afraid and angry, so she settled on anger. "I asked you to stay in my room!"

Draco gave her a small shrug, still kneeling on the floor beside her. "I couldn't. How angry are you?"

"Angry enough to kill you," she said with a glower, "What the hell were you trying to prove?"

He smirked at her, making her, if at all possible, angrier. "They were interrogating you, and it pissed me off. And I thought… I thought I could help."

"I can take care of myself," Ginny snapped.

His smirk disappeared, and he looked at her gravely. "I know. And I'm sorry."

Ginny gaped at him. "Sorry for what exactly?"

"I think I made it worse."

"You think!" she shouted, beyond exasperation.

He chortled a tiny bit and shrugged. Then he kissed her lightly on her lips and stood. "You should get some more sleep. The Mediwizard will be by in a few hours to check on you."

Ginny continued to glare after him as he disappeared back into her bedroom, but something else was slowly overtaking her anger — something about Draco Malfoy apologizing to her, standing up for her. She slowly stood and walked to her front door, as if in a daze, and snapped the deadbolt shut. Then she turned and walked into the bedroom, too many thoughts in her head to sort them out.

Draco was lying on her bed, above the covers, a book held in his hands. A pressing sense that this was more important than anything else ever flooded her, so she kicked her jeans off and joined him. He turned a page, and then, without looking at her, beckoned her into his arms.

She rolled over, nestled her head against his ribcage, and closed her eyes.

"Draco," she said softly.

His response was only a questioning murmur.

"Do you think I'm in danger?"

"From the Aurors?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?" She asked reluctantly, hope filling her slowly.

"You are Ginevra Molly Weasley. You are from one of the oldest pureblood families in England, but also from one with the longest tradition of loyalty to 'the light'. You have five powerful and influential older brothers. You are the ex-girlfriend and friend of Harry Potter, the Boy-who-blah-blah-blah. Despite whatever questionable company you keep, and however long you sequestered your self away for, you are untouchable."

Ginny yawned, her body demanding sleep. "But they don't really think I'm a Death Eater, do they?"

Draco was silent for a long moment before he said, "Things are tense in the Auror department right now. Lestrange's escape has them all paranoid. Go to sleep, Gin. Everything will be fine."

"How do you know?"

"We both have friends in high places," Draco said, his voice growing softer, as Ginny faded into sleep. "Besides, I wouldn't let anything happen to you — not now."

Ginny finally succumbed to sleep, and his thumb tracing circles on her shoulder chased away all her dreams.

...

When the war had ended, Ginny's wand hadn't felt right in her hands. It had felt foreign there, inexplicable. She had briefly asked Ollivander about it — the younger Ollivander, of course, as his grandfather had died in the burning of London. He had shifted a few boxes around, dropped something on his foot, and cursed loudly. Then he had told her that she should try some simple casting with her left hand. Or just let him fit her with a new wand. Neither option had suited her quite right.

So she got into the habit of leaving her wand on her coffee table. She left it sitting there as she boiled water, dropped hard pasta into a pot, and waited. She left it there as she combed her hair in the morning, brushed her teeth. Slowly her small apartment in Hogsmeade became cluttered with Muggle things. Little artifacts, her father would have called them, just things that had been in use for decades. Things run on something other than electricity. A gas stove. A French press. An antique phonograph.

She would find it strange when she occasionally went over to her friend's houses, or even back to the Burrow, and saw the magic streaming through everyone else's lives with certainty. Even the simple way her mother held her wand out to clean Ginny's hands before serving her would make her flinch a bit.

She would go days sometimes without even using her wand. And then something _accidental_ would happen. One day all her pictures started crying, not the magic ones, just her Muggle prints and paintings. She had touched the tears with deference, and realized that she had been thinking of Harry. When he came over that night, she asked him to help her practice.

It hadn't been the first of their many fights, but it always stood out to her. He punched a wall, and stormed away. He hardly left her bedroom for a week.

She started forcing herself to use her wand then. Just little things, and, later, casting Patronus after Patronus to expend her energy faster. The faster it disappeared, after all, the sooner she could put her wand away and go fix some tea.

Her last year of school was hard, and the only classes she did exceptionally well in were Potions and Muggle Studies — things that were largely theory. When she did finally graduate, she was grateful. She moved to London where she discovered her first hairdryer. An electric kettle. A blessed Espresso machine.

And work required almost no magic at all. But despite the fact that the war was over, despite the fact the papers buzzed with the same boring stories that it had the day before and would the day after, despite the fact that she could tell the Wizarding World was settling into the quiet cacophony of Modernism, she still carried her wand with her everywhere. Despite everything, if she left the house, it was always a hair's breadth away from her fingertips.

Three days before she left for New York, she stopped in at Grimm's Mortuary and purchased a simple steel wand box. It was meant for keeping the wands of loved ones after they passed.

Her wand stayed in the box on her mantle for the two years she spent in New York.

If she had known that it was just waiting, that _she_ was just waiting, she might have burned it.

But she would have regretted it.

Because her wand was a part of who, part of _what_, she had become. She held the steel box in her lap now, running her fingers over the sharp metal corners, letting her hands slide across the simple, flat lid. With a sigh, she opened it. The hinges turned silently, and the black velvet inside was comforting yet still cold.

She picked up the broken pieces of her wand from the floor beside her and held them in her left hand. She stared at them sadly. But also with relief. Wands absorb a lot of the spells cast throughout their lifetimes. They reflect the sort of person that their wielder was. Her wand wouldn't have fit with her anymore, and she wouldn't have wanted it to.

She placed the wand in the box, resting it unevenly in the grooves. It didn't sit quite right, now that it was broken, and she ran her finger across it reverently. She would miss it.

"Gin?" a voice called from behind her, and she turned. Draco stood there, leaning on the doorframe of her bedroom, still wearing nothing but his trousers. She glanced away; he was almost too beautiful now that he had been opened up for her. She found it hard to look at him; her eyes couldn't fully focus. It was like staring directly into the sun. She glanced back anyway, though, her eyes drawn to him. The half-smile on his lips faded as he took her in. "Are you okay?"

She hadn't dressed yet either, and was still wore nothing but his large oxford shirt, buttoned unevenly and smelling of him. She had never felt more at home. She smiled as he stepped towards her. He kneeled on the ground next to her, and she leaned over to kiss him. Because she could. _She could._

He smiled against her lips. His hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades. Butterflies erupted in her stomach, a feeling that was growing more familiar, and when he pulled away, she kept her eyes closed. It would be alright if they never left the flat again.

Then he took the box from her. Her eyes snapped open, taking in his frown as his fingers touched the top of the box reverently, traveling the same path hers had moments before.

She took a moment to study him as he opened the box. She stared unabashedly at his wrinkled forehead, his straight nose, his pale lashes like soot under his eyes.

His fingers reached towards the pieces of her wand, and then he pulled them away suddenly.

He looked powerless, when his eyes met hers. Powerless but not resentful. She liked the look, she admitted with a little bit of malicious glee. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Don't apologize," she said with a small smile as she took the box from him and set it down on her other side. She brushed his fringe from his eyes as she leaned closer. "I'm grateful."

"Where did you get this box?" he asked

"I've had it for years," Ginny said. "I bought it before I went to New York."

The corner of his eyes crinkled a little bit at that, and, though she tried, she couldn't understand the look on his face. "Would you like to go get a new wand tomorrow?"

She blinked at him, sensing the multiple layers that question had. Thousands of questions all piled into one. But there was still only one honest answer. "Yes," she said softly.

"Then you're through punishing yourself?"

Her eyes flashed as she stared at him. She wished that she had the power to be angry at that. But she didn't, she couldn't, because he was right.

She smiled then, an unexpected voice whispering in her ear. It was her own. _If just one person knows the truth of you…_

His hand cupped her cheek gently, his thumb running over the tip of her nose as he looked at her. "What did you say?" he asked lightly.

She hadn't realized that she had spoken aloud, but she did know, as she stared at his smirk, that he had heard her. Understood her. She shook her head, "Nothing."

His smirk widened, and then he kissed her again, hard and fast, and Ginny felt herself melting into him as he pulled her closer. She let herself be dragged underneath of him as he ran his lips across her skin, setting fire to her in every way she had ever thought impossible. Her fingers trailed through his hair, and even as she gasped in pleasure, she felt as if she had been separated from her body, as if she was watching someone else's life. Someone else's moment. It was too big to be her own, after all.

She spun away from it all as her hands traveled across his naked back, down his arms, holding him closer as she arched up from the hard floor.

His lips found hers again though, and she slammed full force back into her own body as he kissed her hungrily. She kissed him back with the same fervor, holding onto him desperately, taking him in as if she had been lost in the desert and he was the rain.

And, she realized, a moment later, despite the cliché, that metaphor was actually entirely appropriate. With a grin, she flipped him over and he ceded control to her. So easily.

The smile didn't fade, even as tears gathered in her eyes and fell onto his sternum, marring his perfect pale skin.

The taste of them though, mixed with the salt of his sweat, left her feeling complete in a way that she hadn't in… ever.

And when her eyes met his, he was smiling too.

...

It was sometime near seven when her doorbell clanged again, and Ginny groaned. She and Draco were stretched out on the couch, her back pressed into his chest, after a long day of worried conversations and sex. Well, Draco wasn't worried, but Ginny was. She had killed someone, after all. There were consequences to that.

"_Self defense, Gin,"_ Draco had said, time and time again. But Ginny had wanted to kill Lestrange. She had wanted it so badly that she had used that curse.

Still, Ginny sat up and poked Draco in the ribs. "Get up."

He blinked at her, seeming to go instantly from dozing to alert. "Who is it?"

"I don't know. Let's get dressed."

The doorbell clanged again, and Ginny rushed into her bedroom, followed by a grumbling Draco, and quickly donned some clothing.

"Coming," she called, as she rushed to the door.

She opened it, finding that she wasn't at all surprised to see Harry and Co. standing on her small porch.

"What are you guys doing here?" she asked as she greeted them all with hugs. Ron held on a bit longer than necessary, but that's why she loved her brother.

"Well," Hermione said, "Draco Flooed me."

"Draco did?" Ginny asked, surprised and not surprised all over again.

"Well, yes," Hermione said, taking off her cloak. "And though I was surprised to see his face in your apartment–" she shot Ginny an accusatory look "–Ron and I contacted Harry as soon as possible. What he told us…" She broke off with a shake of her head.

"How are you feeling, Ginny?" Harry said slowly, reaching out to put his hand on her shoulder; his lips curled up into his half smile. "I bet you're exhausted. Have you had to deal with the Aurors yet?"

"Bunch of fucking wankers," Ron cut in, smiling at Ginny before turning to Harry, "I'm so fucking glad you gave up on your dream to become an Auror. What a bunch of pencil-pushing idiots."

Ginny laughed, surprised when Hermione joined her.

Harry smiled at her lightly. "Really though, are you okay? After last night? Ron and I wanted to come straight over, after hearing from Draco, but Hermione insisted we wait for whatever reason."

Ginny sobered slightly. "I'm fine, Harry. I'm just a little… shaken is all. The whole thing is just confusing."

She looked the Hermione, who was hanging their three cloaks over Ginny's messy coat hooks. "Well, it's simple, really. Ever since Lestrange's escape, there have been all sorts of rumors about the Dark Lord's forces massing together again. The Ministry is on high alert for anyone suspected of dark magic. Anyone at all." Hermione stared at her curiously. "I'm surprised you weren't aware. It's been all over the papers — the Ministry recalled a bunch of Dark Magic books from every library in Britain. Even Hogwarts's restricted section was closed off completely. Everyone connected to Voldemort in even the slightest way has been called in for questioning. I think even Pansy's had to report to the Ministry."

Ginny gaped a little.

"Don't you read the papers at all, Ginny?" Harry asked, slight admonition in his voice.

She shook her head. "The give me headaches."

The three of them chuckled knowingly.

"So what happened last night?" Ron asked finally, wrapping his arm around his little sister's shoulder and leading her to the couch. Ginny allowed herself that moment–the moment of being a child, and slowly, she sank down onto the cushions.

Again, she told herself, she did not feel guilty. And then again. "I killed him."

"How?" Hermione asked in her normal rational manner, as she took a seat on Ginny's other side.

"How do you think?" Ginny asked bitterly. "I transfigured my wand somehow–I'm not sure how I even got a hold of that spell, and I stabbed him." Ron's fingers tightened on her shoulders. "When he looked up at me, struggling for more of a fight, that's when–that's when I cast it."

"Cast what, Ginny?" Hermione asked softly.

"What do you think, Hermes?" Draco asked stiffly from the door to her bedroom.

Ginny glanced up, meeting his eyes. He seemed to lend her strength then, and she was grateful.

"Malfoy!" Harry exclaimed after a moment, the only one who seemed surprised at his presence.

The room was still for a long while. "Merlin, Draco," Ginny said with a small smirk, "How do you always manage to make such a dramatic entrance?"

He smiled at her–not smirked, "It's all in the timing, love."

She found herself smiling back, even as Ron's fingers tightened painfully on her shoulder.

"What did you cast, Ginny?" Hermione asked again.

But it was Harry who answered, his voice dull and full of resignation. "Avada Kedavra."

Ginny nodded slowly, staring at the floor.

Hemione shook next to her. "Oh, Ginny, you should have known better…"

"How?" Ron snapped at his wife, his hand now running up and down her back. "She's been out of the country, out of the world for the past two years, she would have missed–"

"Would have missed what?" Ginny asked.

"That curse has been outlawed," Harry said weakly.

Ginny glanced up at him. He was looking over her, at the wall above her head. His arms were crossed, but he looked sad–almost petulant, not angry.

"It's always been outlawed, Harry."

"No," he said slowly, "Not like this. This is much worse than life in Azkaban. The Ministry has so much hatred and fear left over; the curse means the kiss. For so long all feared it because of Voldemort, and now — because of Snape's belief that we should fight fire with fire — most people in our generation can cast it. And anyone who casts it, well, let's just say, it's not good."

"Who knows?" Hermione asked.

"Just you four," Ginny said with a sigh.

"Fine then," Ron said. "This won't be any trouble at all; we'll just–"

"It's not nearly as simple as all that," Draco interrupted. "They don't even suspect her of the Killing Curse, or she would have been taken into custody immediately. They suspect her as being a Death Eater."

"What?" Harry said dumbly.

"Because of the company she keeps," Draco said softly.

Ginny watched as all three of them turned to look at Draco. Harry's look was accusative, Hermione's speculative, and Ron's — weirdly enough — sympathetic.

"That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. We can take care of this," Harry said, "I just have to speak to the Minister."

Draco's lips curled up into a sneer, and Ginny shot him a warning look. "Harry, I don't think that–"

"Yes, Ginny," Harry said bitterly, "It's quite clear that you don't think."

She reeled, hurt, and he sighed. "Sorry. But you really don't get it, do you?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but paused. "No, I guess not. Thank you, Harry. I know that you've always hated doing things like this."

He softened before joining them on the couch. His hand reached over Ron's lap and grasped one of hers. She met his brilliant green eyes. "Hey, I've done it before for you, haven't I?"

Ginny remembered the press conference and Draco and she looked down, distraught. "I'm so sorry Harry. So sorry. For then and for now."

Somehow, Ron and Hermione, and even a reluctant Draco had gotten up and moved away, and Harry was pulling her into his arms. He whispered, "It's okay, Ginny, I get it. Really. I do."

She felt it then, felt him as he had always been. Her friend. He always would be, too.

"I'm glad to help. It'll be okay. I promise."

And for the first time since her graduation, she actually believed him. She pulled away, looking at him directly, "Thank you, Harry."

He smiled, both relived and sad, a smile that Ginny would never be able to interpret, never be able forget. "Of course," he said.

"Of course."

She was shocked to realize that a little bit of her still found Harry Potter her savior.

...

After Hermione and Ron had promised to do what they could as well, the three of them left, a single unit, with her still on the outside. She watched them walk down her stairs, conversing quietly, and waited until Harry gave her the same look he always tossed in her direction. It was a quiet glance over Hermione's shoulder before they vanished into the night.

She smiled ruefully, and then closed and bolted her door. She walked slowly back to her bedroom, and stood in the doorway hesitantly. Draco was sitting on the bed.

He looked up and glared at her. "Well, thank god Harry Potter is here to save the day again," he said in a dead voice.

She opened her mouth once and then again. "What?" she finally managed.

He raised an eyebrow. "Surprised that I somehow managed to notice you clinging to him as he promised you salvation?" he asked bitterly, "You say you can take care of yourself, but whenever he's around, you sure play one hell of a 'damsel in distress'."

Her mouth dropped open, "You're jealous?"

He glared even more fiercely, standing. "No. I'm leaving."

She actually burst out laughing. "Draco. Sit," she said, unable to keep the smile off her lips.

He did sit, surprising her, but the anger was rolling off of him in waves.

"I was apologizing to Harry for something I did a long time ago that caused him a great deal of pain." Draco glowered at her wall, unimpressed. Ginny still had to fight the giddiness inside of her as she started to walk towards him. "But, really, I should have been apologizing to you."

He looked at her then, only briefly, before returning his gaze to the wall. "I should be apologizing to you because–" Ginny pushed up against him and straddled his hips. He still refused to meet her glance, even as she forcefully turned his face to hers "–because he knew how I felt about you long before I ever told you."

"Huh?" Draco said finally, turning his eyes to hers. It was easily the most ineloquent sound she had heard pass his lips.

"The last time Harry involved himself in Ministry affairs because of me was when I asked him to get you out of prison."

She took a deep breath. "I am in love with you, you stupid, egotistical, fragile prat."

An emotion other than anger finally appeared on his face — shock. And then wonderment.

"I have been since… well, probably my sixth year. Since then I have been completely and utterly in lo–"

He cut her off with a harsh kiss, his arms wrapping around her to pull her closer, further into him. He was moaning against her mouth, his hands hot and heavy as they traced her spine.

"You fucking better be," he growled as she finally broke the kiss, gasping. "And, hey!" he said, nipping at her neck. "I am not _fragile_."

She couldn't help it, she laughed — fully and heartily. Despite everything: the Ministry, Rodolphous, the past, and this shaky thing with Draco; she was happy.

He was busy working the buttons on her shirt, when she said it again. "I love you," she whispered. His hands were digging into her rib cage, his lips on her sternum, "I love you."

She was brushing her fingers across his bared chest, determined to match his ferocity with gentleness. "I love you."

Her tongue found his belly button. "I love you."

Her fingers on his waistband. "I love you."

"Bloody hell, woman," Draco said pulling her up to look him in the eye. "Shut up already."

"I love you," she said with a giant grin.

He smiled back, and her heart fluttered. "I heard."

"I'm just making up for lost time," she said, resting her forehead on his.

"Might take a while," he said, without missing a beat.

"I love you."

He sighed, cupping her face gently, his thumb brushing her lips.

"I–" he cut her off by covering her mouth with his hand.

She stared at him imploringly, and he smiled again. "I love you too."

She pulled his hand away and smirked at him. "I know."

He dropped his eyes and shook his head. He was trembling, and it took Ginny a moment to realize it was laughter. And then it bubbled over his lips and came out, a shaking, joyful sound. Ginny felt her heart soar as she joined in, all thoughts banished form her mind except Draco.

Draco.

* * *

Thanks again to everyone who has read and reviewed! You guys are awesome! xxx


	8. Chapter 8: Welcome Home

Chapter 8: Welcome Home

* * *

_If I could do just one near perfect thing I'd be happy.  
__They'd write it on my grave, or when they scattered my ashes.  
__On second thoughts, I'd rather hang around and be there with my best friend,  
__If she wants me.  
__If you think to yourself, "What should I do now?"  
__Than take the baton, and girl, you better run with it.  
__'Cause there is no point in standing in the past cause it's over and done with.  
_– Belle and Sebastian _If She wants Me_

* * *

_Ginny's world is dark. Not black dark, but dark. Dark gray around the borders as if shrouded in mist as the sun waits patiently to rise._

_A small figure emerges in the distance, and even though she can't make him out, she knows, somehow, that it's Snape. His chilly voice whispers across her skin, raising hairs as it strokes her. _

"_We move so slowly as life passes. We hardly realize that it passes at all. That may be the only thing that unifies us all." He is coming closer now, and Ginny can see that he is standing taller than he ever had in real life. His spine is straight; his shoulders pulled back. _

"_We all waste time in sleep, in dreams, in fear, in war. We take life and we break it and we waste it — when did we stop and realize that time is sacred, that life is precious, and then decide that this wasn't enough motivation to make us live it?"_

_His face emerges from the mist as the sun crests up behind him. He is smiling, as close to sincere as she has ever seen him, and his teeth are bright white. His hair is longer – a braided black rope that falls down his back, and he seems strong. _

"_Professor," she says courteously. "You're looking well."_

_He chortles. "I look the way that you would like me to look."_

_She just blinks at him._

"_I'm dead, Ginevra. Very, very dead."_

_For a reason she does not understand, tears prickle her eyes. "This is how you should have looked then."_

"_Is it?" he asked. "Is this what I was supposed to be? Confident? Arrogant? Handsome?"_

"_Proud," Ginny said firmly. "You should have been proud."_

"_Pride is for those who do not know themselves, Ginevra. Pride is for those who have not looked upon the truth of what they are."_

"_And what are you?"_

"_I _was_ a monster. A machine. I walked through life as if I regretted every step. But I didn't, and I am ashamed that I did not."_

"_And death? Does death suit you better?"_

_He shrugged, his lips curving upward into a smile once more. "Nothing changes here. Time does not pass. I cannot waste anything; I have nothing to fear. Death, as people like us have long suspected, is for the cowardly. There is nothing to be afraid of."_

"_Is there anything to hope for?"_

_His smiles fades as Ginny watches him. The mist is fading away, the sun beating even harder down upon them._

"_I was never very good at hope, Ginevra."_

"_Someone should have taught you."_

"_There was no you in my life, Ginevra. There was no one for me to learn from."_

"_You were proud of the wrong things."_

_He laughed again, the sound bouncing around the space, hollow and light and… happy._

"_Perhaps, Ginevra, perhaps."_

...

Ginny tapped her new wand — twelve inches of ash with a core of foxglove and phoenix feather — against her hand as they waited outside the Minister's office. She, Draco, Ron, Harry, and Hermione had made quite the spectacle when they marched into the Ministry together. The three heroes who had saved the wizarding world, a former Death Eater, and her, the famously admired healer who had apparently saved a hundred lives during the great battle. All five of them wore formal robes, all with determination etched across their brows. People had fallen silent, stopped in their tracks, and just outright stared as they crossed the atrium of the grand ground floor.

It had filled her with both pride and embarrassment for a moment, but now, in the quiet corridor outside Caldwell's office, her confident veneer was failing as she fidgeted in her seat. Hermione was flicking through a copy of The Prophet with disdain. Harry was staring at the ceiling in boredom. Ron looked calm and Draco collected. It was so frustrating!

"He knows you're coming, right?" Ron asked, sounding far more impatient than he looked.

Ginny glanced at the clock she had been avoiding and felt relief flood her. They really had been sitting out here for far too long; she thought she had been imagining it.

Harry let out a short, frustrating puff of air. "Yes. He's just trying to prove a point."

Hermione chortled and rolled her eyes.

"What point?" Ginny asked.

"That the Minister of Magic is more important than The Great Harry Potter," Draco said, rolling his eyes, "What an idiot." Ginny didn't know much at all about Caldwell, other than he was supposedly a pure politician. When he had first been elected three years ago, she hadn't liked him much, but he had been getting things done–or at least, that's how people talked about him.

Ron chuckled. "Payback for that entrance."

"It was rather spectacular," Draco said with a smirk. "I swear I saw Hannah Abbott pour tea all over herself in her distraction."

"Too bad Creevey wasn't there to snap some pictures," Harry said with a distracted smile.

Draco's hand rested on her knee, and Ginny stared at it for a moment before resting her own on top of it. She couldn't help but smile at the fact that he was offering her comfort at the mere mention of Colin's name. She felt a small twinge in her heart as she allowed herself to think of him. "He would have loved being here to document the five of us, walking in like we owned the place."

Harry and Ron chuckled as Draco wove his fingers between hers.

They drifted back into silence, but it felt much less anxious now, as if the five of them could really put away all their animosity with just a few sentences. And finally the door to the Minister's inner office opened, his secretary stepping out.

"Minister Caldwell will see you now, Mr. Potter," she said politely, bowing slightly.

The five of them stood and the secretary began to protest, but Harry just strode on past her.

Draco's hand on her lower back pushed her forward. "Just remember to keep you mouth shut."

She elbowed him lightly in the stomach and caught his smile as they stepped into the large office.

Eric Caldwell did a double take when he saw them all walk in, his frown becoming more pronounced. "Mr. Potter," he said, gesturing to the sole seat before his desk without standing, "I was only expecting you."

"Minister," Harry said, inclining his head slightly as he sat, "I believe you already know Hermione Granger, Ron and Ginny Weasley, and Draco Malfoy."

Ginny stood firmly between Draco and her brother, watching the Minister's mouth turn up with distaste as he took in Draco. Idly, she felt irritated with Harry, as if he should have known that springing all of them on the Minister was a terrible idea.

"What is this, Mr. Potter? Some sort of childish display?" Caldwell said sharply. "I find your association with a former Death Eater to be discouraging."

Harry's placid face showed no signs of his irritation, but Ginny saw his shoulders tense. "Well, I find the fact that you kept us waiting to be ridiculously rude, but none of that really matters, does it?"

The Minister opened his mouth to reply, but shut it quickly when his secretary returned with the teacart.

"Oh," she said apologetically to them, "I didn't think, please forgive me."

Ginny looked at her curiously, until the flustered woman began to conjure chairs. Four additional seats appeared, and once they were all seated, she turned to see Harry was still staring at the Minister, a smirk across his lips.

"Thank you, Ms. Wheaton, you are excused," Caldwell barked.

She hesitated before slowly wheeling the untouched teacart out again.

"Mr. Potter," he began again, "Please let us begin. What brings you here today?"

"I am… intrigued by recent actions of your Auror department against my friend and fellow war hero, Ginevra Weasley."

Ginny's name on his lips made her squirm a little bit, but not as much as Caldwell — he appeared to turn an even darker shade of red.

"I do not know what you mean."

Hermione ruffled her copy of the Daily Prophet, and Ginny caught a glimpse of the front page which she knew featured a giant picture of her underneath the headline "Ginny Weasley, Renowned Healer, Under Investigation". Clearly Caldwell knew what the headline read, and probably the contents of the article, which made the Ministry out to be bumbling fools and the Auror department out to be impotent snakes on a witch-hunt.

"Really?" Harry asked, feigning surprise. "So you were unaware that on the morning after the attack the Aurors returned to Ms. Weasley's house to interrogate her as to the nature of her relationship with the Death Eaters?"

Caldwell spluttered. "Auror investigations are closed to the public, as you well know, Potter."

Harry shrugged.

"What is it exactly that you came here for?"

"I find the entire enterprise to be preposterous. As does, I'm sure you've noticed, most everyone else as well. Ginny is a respected healer and therapist. She dedicated her life during the war to healing, and her time afterwards helping others who suffered. She has done nothing at all to deserve the Auror Department's suspicion. And–"

"That's not what I hear," Caldwell cut in rudely.

"And," Harry continued, his voice rising slightly, "We've come here today to respectfully request you put a stop this nonsense at once."

"Now see here, Mr. Potter," Caldwell said, bristling, "I've reviewed the details of the case myself, and I see several reasons to continue the investigation."

Ginny's eyes darted back and forth between them.

"Name them."

Caldwell's eyes narrowed. "Ms. Weasley may not be as innocent as you think, Mr. Potter. She disappeared two years ago only to return right as a Death Eater escapes Azkaban! And she keeps the company of former Death Eaters. Furthermore, witnesses spotted her during the Battle of Hogwarts fleeing from the infirmary only to be seen again later saving a Death Eater's life. Even the conditions of her Auror detail are suspicious!"

Harry actually chortled, "That's all you've got?"

Caldwell spluttered angrily. "How dare you come here and question my operations? Who do you think you are?"

Draco laughed lightly, and Caldwell refocused his glare on him. "What?" he snapped.

Draco's gaze met the Minister's contemptuously. "He thinks he's Harry Potter."

Caldwell glowered, looking back at Harry and taking in Harry's calm posture and his roaming eyes. "Caldwell," Harry began calmly, "I've never liked you." The Minister's face was becoming an ugly shade of puce, and Ginny had to bite her lip to stifle her giggle, despite her growing dread. "No one likes you really," Harry continued, "but then again, no one else really wants your job. I know that I definitely don't."

He sighed theatrically, his eyes meeting Caldwell's firmly, all the anger he must have felt slowly coming to the surface. "But then again, this is really a very nice office."

Ginny almost forgot herself at the implication. Her eyes darted between her friends' faces — Harry was looking harshly at the minister, Hermione and Draco were both smiling smugly, and Ron was glancing speculatively around the room.

The color drained from Caldwell's face. "Is that a threat, Mr. Potter?"

"Hardly," Harry responded, "Merely a consideration."

Caldwell seemed to resign himself to something then, but fury still sparked in his eyes.

"We all know that you could use some good press right now, so what I suggest is a formal announcement: Ginny Weasley has been cleared of any and all suspicion. This should then be followed by three formal apologies. First, Ms. Weasley is owed an apology for the Auror Department's failure to protect her from a known threat. Second, Ms. Weasley again is owed an apology for the Auror Department's attempt to tarnish her good name with an unnecessary and ridiculous investigation. And finally, to the wizarding people of Britain who deserve an apology for your gross incompetence and willingness to waste time and money on a pointless crusade."

Caldwell was gaping at him. "See here, Mr. Potter–you're being unreasonable."

"Perhaps," Harry said, "But from where I'm sitting, I've been perfectly reasonable thus far. I have refrained from making a public statement or speaking to the press about my thoughts on these absolutely ridiculous allegations. However, I have considered it, we all have, and you know how the media… favors me."

Caldwell opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. He let out a long-suffering sigh. "I don't like being blackmailed, Mr. Potter."

"It's hardly blackmail, Minister Caldwell, no need to be dramatic. Surely if you took another look at the situation, I have no doubt you would agree with me. Ginny Weasley is a hero. She is compassionate and brave. And despite the fact that she was stalked by a deranged Death Eater that escaped from a Ministry-maintained prison and left unprotected by her Ministry Aurors, she maintains her good spirits and does not blame the Ministry for these assaults. She has been gracious and forgiving, and she deserves your respect."

Ginny was hardly breathing, so fascinated by this conversation, when Draco shifted in his seat. She glanced over at him and he smiled at her and rolled his eyes. She could see it on his face then — they'd won.

"Ms. Weasley," Caldwell said with a sigh. She met his eyes boldly, trying to look at him as Harry as told her to–indignant and confident– not anxious or scared. "I suppose I and my Auror department owe you an apology."

With that he stood, and stretched his hand across the desk, looking at Harry as if he'd already forgotten she was there. The five of them stood, and Harry reached across the desk, hand outstretched. Caldwell took it, and Harry grinned.

"When you make the announcement, I'll be there."

Caldwell nodded, clearly displeased. "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter."

"Minister," Harry said, turning.

The four of them followed him out. As soon as the door of the outer office closed, he slumped against the wall. "God, I could really use a drink right now."

Hermione scoffed, "You were brilliant, Harry."

"Definitely," Ron said, cuffing him on the shoulder. "Caldwell was ready to spit nails."

Harry's eyes met Ginny's; "Thank you, Harry. I had no idea he'd be so reluctant."

"Or so angry," Hermione added, "What a jerk."

Hermione and Ron started towards the lift, and Harry moved to follow them, but Draco stopped him. "I know it doesn't matter what I have to say, but… Thank you. Thank you very much."

Harry nodded, glancing at Ginny again. "You're welcome."

...

"I told you Boy Wonder would take care of it," Draco said once the two of them had returned to Ginny's apartment.

Ginny fumbled for a cigarette and lit it quickly. She had been craving one all morning, but with all the press popping up wherever she went, she had forced herself to wait. Draco watched her with a distracted smile.

"Are you going to freak out?"

The nicotine hit her hard, and she shook her head numbly as she flopped down onto the couch. "What the fuck was Harry thinking?"

Draco sat down next to her and pulled out one of his own cigarettes. He held it in hand, but didn't light it. "Harry knew exactly what he was doing. Caldwell is not a complete idiot, he knows that Harry can fuck everything up for him, especially since the Aurors found no real evidence of your supposed Death Eater involvement. Harry knew the same. He had to at least make it look like he was trying, and Caldwell had to make it look like he was fighting back. There was never any real question of the outcome… I told you all this earlier."

"I know, it's just…" Ginny sighed and trailed off.

"Yeah," Draco said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her against his chest. "Yeah."

Ginny smiled and leaned into it. "I don't know why I even bothered being worried." But that wasn't true, she knew exactly why she had bothered.

Draco kissed her forehead.

"I am afraid though," Ginny whispered.

"Of what?"

Ginny was silent for a long moment, searching for a right answer. There wasn't one. "Being happy."

Draco's hand tightened on her shoulder, and he sighed. "Why?"

"Because then there's just so much more to lose."

His long fingers plucked her cigarette away from her, and he took a heavy drag before vanishing it. "These days, fear will only hold you back."

"So now you're telling me to be a better Gryffindor and charge head first into anything?"

He chuckled. "It's not so bad a trait. And there's nothing to be afraid of anymore, Gin."

"It's over," she said to her self — a habitual reminder.

"Yes," he said softly against her hair as he pulled her body against his. "It's over."

And Ginny actually managed to believe him.

...

As she walked into St. Mungo's, Ginny discovered something. She really didn't like hospitals. She didn't like the officious tones of the nurses. She didn't like the strangely dry hospital smell. She hated the sounds that barely seeped out under the doors of the patient rooms, because for all she knew, behind them, people lay dying. She wondered briefly if she had always hated them, or if this was a new development, but all thoughts were cast aside as the nurse she was following stopped suddenly.

"Visiting hours are over at three," she said curtly, spinning on her heel and leaving Ginny standing in front of a door. She knocked tentatively, and a cheerful voice called her inside.

Mike lay in the center of the bed, propped up with a book in his lap. Several large bouquets surrounded him, and he looked quite content and quite comfortable.

"Ginny!" he cried, "So glad you could make it, though, to be honest, I expected you days ago. In fact, I expected you to be here when I woke up, wringing your hands and confessing your undying love for me."

At that, Ginny cracked up and stepped further into the room. "It must have been quite a shocker when all you woke up to was your own ugly mug in the mirror."

He shot her a goofy grin, and she finally sat down by the bed. "I am sorry though for not coming sooner, and for, well, getting you into this mess."

Mike chortled and laid his hands on his heart. "It is but part of my tragic duty."

"Really, Mike, I'm sorry."

But he just waved her off again. "Blah, blah, blah, you're sorry. Blah, blah, blah, you knew it was dangerous. Blah. Shut up, Ginny. I'm an Auror, or at least I think I still am. You don't have to protect me. I was supposed to protect you, though I hear, you did quite a good job of that yourself."

Ginny smiled slightly, taking the seat by his bed. "What do you mean, you think you still are?"

Mike laughed a little nervously. "You mean you didn't see the papers? Where 'an unidentified source' in the Auror Department said the whole investigation into your Death Eater ties was preposterous? Who claimed that the attempt to drag your name trough the dirt was just an attempt to cover up the department's own failings?"

"That was you?" Ginny asked, her mouth dropping open.

His chuckle was firmer this time. "Who else did you think it could be?"

"So you've been… sacked? Because of me?"

"Well no, not yet. We'll see."

"There might be something I can do. I mean, there has to be something. I would hate–"

"You trouble yourself too much, Ginny."

She smiled at that. "I know."

They were both silent for a long moment, and then he grinned widely at her. "So… did you bring lunch?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Ginny said, pushing everything else away and grinning broadly. "I'm afraid that you have become just a bit too predictable."

Mike threw his extra pillow at her, and she felt her smile grow. She placed two chopsticks on his hospital tray and smirked at him.

"What's this?" he asked with a knowing glare.

"Today, we are going to learn something new."

She placed a bowl of Japanese rice noodles in front of him and smiled cheerily. "I hope you're feeling particularly patient."

"I think this might actually constitute as torture," he said with a glare.

"No," Ginny said with a smug smirk, "Watching you eat sushi with your fingers is."

Mike just glared at her some more.

...

"We don't really have to be here," Draco said, as he took her hand and led her away from the Hogsmeade station.

"You're right, _we_ don't. I was perfectly happy to come alone."

He squeezed her had a little bit, "And I suppose I'm glad to join you. Wanted to come by and taunt Potter for a bit anyway. Maybe sit in on one of his classes and leave him a bottle of brandy."

"You will do no such thing! There's no need to torment the recovering alcoholic."

"So you're fine with the taunting."

Ginny shrugged as they stepped into the sunlight. "Just keep it below emotionally scarring."

"I don't know if I can do that," Draco said with a smirk. She tightened her hand painfully around his. He grimaced, but didn't let go. He started to lead her to the right, towards the castle, but Ginny paused.

"I'm going to go up to the crypt first."

"Gin, I thought–"

"I want to go, Draco."

He sighed and turned in that direction, but she placed a hand on his chest. "Alone."

"Are you sure?"

She met his eyes with grim determination. "Positive."

"Alright," He ducked his head and took a step back. "I suppose I really will go see Potter."

"Just remember–"

"–Not to invite him out for a drink. I get it."

She reached up and placed a short kiss on his lips. "Thank you."

He squeezed her hand one last time and released it, turning away first and starting down the hill.

Ginny watched for a moment and then went in the opposite direction, trekking upwards.

The path through Hogsmeade was covered in a light dusting of snow, and sure signs of Christmas were everywhere. Small wreaths bedecked all the doors, and faint carols drifted out of the shops. She couldn't help humming along, despite the nervous race of her heart.

Soon the houses became further and further apart, until there were none, and the top of the hill was in sight. A small burial vault stood there, surrounded by a young grove of trees and a rickety wrought iron fence. The gate squeaked when she pushed it open.

Inside, it was massive, the size hidden away under the hill. A place meant to be forgotten — meant for the forgotten. The room was almost terrifyingly large, with walls that went up thirty rows of stone covers. Just for ashes, she thought as she descended the spiral staircase into the crypt, but she could still feel the substance of the people inside. There was a small ledger at the landing, and a magical platform in front of it.

Bellatrix Lestrange's remains were on the eleventh 'story'. The stones covering the numerous cubbies were marked only with numbers, and Ginny stepped onto the platform, waiting for it to raise her to right place. It was a slow ride, and rather surreal. When the small platform stopped, Ginny traced the roman numerals etched into stone. She had never bothered to learn how to read them. CCXIV.

It didn't matter what the numbers were, really. There were a lot before, and a lot after this one.

She kneeled and pressed her forehead against the cool surface. She couldn't help comparing it to the great blue edifice on the lawn, and she felt sorrow as she did. But for whom? These forgotten casualties?

She wanted to be angry at the clusters of flowers gathered everywhere, but she couldn't bring herself to be, as she herself placed lilies in the special hold designated for such a purpose. Tears welled in her eyes, and she prayed as she pressed her hand to her chest.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But, where ever you are, I hope that you're sorry too."

She sighed and pressed her hand to the number. "It's over."

The words felt strange on her tongue, as if she hadn't said them in years. For the first time she actually believed them. "It's over."

Without her asking, the platform slowly took her back down to the floor, and she climbed the winding staircase back up to the light. The journey back down the hill was far easier, and by the time she made it back to the village, people were milling through the town.

And her heart finally felt light enough to respond to people's friendly tidings of joy.

...

When Ginny got back to Hogwarts, she didn't go searching for Draco in Harry's office; she knew exactly where he'd be.

Before she even opened the door to their courtyard, she knew it wasn't empty. He was in the middle of the courtyard sitting on the ground, an unlit cigarette dangling between his fingers.

She walked over and joined him, dropping to the ground beside him with a small smile.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, his hand immediately seeking hers out.

The warming charm he had cast enveloped her like a plush blanket, and a real smile graced her lips. "Yeah, I actually do."

His fingers tightened around hers. "I didn't think I would ever come back here again."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "If you hadn't, how else would I have found you?"

For a long moment, the two sat in silence, until Draco finally lit the cigarette he had been holding on to. "When I look back on those last two years, the only things I seem to remember are here. Everything else just fades away. I can almost pretend that things went differently, that I walked away a different person."

Ginny sighed softly, pulling out her own cigarette and lighting it. "I know what you mean. But for me, it's almost as if the entire time here was a dream. A different part of my life that didn't exist when I was elsewhere. I used to think that it was all a dream – that I had dreamed you and the me that I wanted to be into existence."

He chuckled lightly. "Can you think of all the ways things would be different if we had been those people beyond this place?"

Ginny stared at the wall across from her as the question raced through her mind. She thought about hiding in her flat in Hogsmeade during her final year to avoid the tower. She thought about the shaky beginnings of her relationship with Harry, and the way that, eventually, she had even run away from that. She thought about the tiny room in the basement of St. Mungo's where her patients would show up complaining of nightmares or phantom pains, and the resigned look on the face that greeted her from the mirror every night.

She thought about Blaise and Pansy and Snape and Harry Potter shaking Draco Malfoy's hand.

"No," she said after a long moment.

"No?" he asked.

"No. I can't. There's just too much, Draco. Too much time ahead of us to spend anymore in the past."

Draco sighed and leaned back. Ginny cast her eyes to him; he looked soft and drawn. The worst part, though, was that he looked lonely. He always looked lonely. She wanted to fill him up with herself, wanted to put it all behind him, force him to realize that he would never be alone again. He had her.

She leaned towards him and pushed the fringe from his eyes. "Draco?"

He opened his eyes, meeting hers placidly. She draped her body over his, watching the interest spark in his eyes, along with something else. Then she kissed him. Soft and gentle, sad lips meeting at the same time, moving together, singing a strange sort of dirge. She pulled away and sighed softly.

"Gin?" he asked, almost reluctantly.

"You don't think it's too late for us, do you?"

He brushed her hair back, once, and then again when it fell back across her face. She caught a glance of his small smile.

"Didn't I tell you once?" he said gently, pulling her down for another soft kiss. "It's never too late."

When she smiled, it was with relief and peace. Ginny snuggled against his chest, and tilted her head to look at overcast circle of sky. "Well," she said finally, "At least your warming charms have gotten better."

He chuckled. "Yes, but it's still cold. Let's go in."

"No," she said, "Let's go home."

...

_What all of us have in common is fear. We're all afraid of something — whether it be pain, or loss, or death — all of us have something to fear. The generations wrought by Voldemort's reign are especially aware of this, after all, for years, the majority of us were afraid to even say his name. But for my generation, it was not our fear of Voldemort that haunted our childhoods, rather our parents' fear of loss. We grew up in peaceful times, born into terror but raised after it. We grew up with rose gardens instead of vegetable and boredom rather than suspicion. It was not until our adolescence that our parents' worst fears were realized, that we became aware of something greater than late homework and NEWTs. Our fears of Voldemort were learned, trained into us until they became habitual, but never real until he came back. _

_To some of us, the terror he inspired and the paranoia he created was horrible. To others, it was a relief– because finally, there was a name to our own weaknesses, an outer force to be afraid of. But no matter how we felt about it, the period of waiting in fear was all encompassing. _

_We couldn't trust teachers or students. We couldn't trust our futures. And we couldn't even trust ourselves. He debilitated us with his hidden presence and sneak attacks. His motivations were unclear and his strategies were unpredictable. All we knew was that we had to be careful. _

_Growing up and going to school in that environment was not easy, but what has proven to be even more difficult is moving beyond it now that it's over. _

_Because it is over. Voldemort is gone and is never coming back. The Death Eaters have been caught, killed, or driven out. And, far more importantly, our generation has reached a point where we can look past our differences far enough to see that we are better off just accepting one another. In that sense, we really have won. _

_But despite the fact that we no longer have to fear a senseless madman hell bent on destroying the world, we still seem to fear ourselves and each other. All of that learned suspicion, that habitual caution, hasn't gone away. We are tired of being afraid, but we cannot bring ourselves to trust one another. And, we have lost ourselves to the fight. _

_In the war against Voldemort, those who supported Dumbledore, Harry Potter, and the goodness of all humankind, had easy answers. Life was a series of yes and no questions that we only had to ask if we wanted to. The path was there, and right or wrong was easily determined. _

_It is now, in this aftermath, that we stumble. It is the burden of every war veteran that survives. One must review the choices, look at the past, and question. Was what I did in the name of 'right' actually right? Was duty the only thing that drove me? Anyone who has held a weapon and cursed someone with something that couldn't be taken back must deal with the consequences forever._

_And that is the fear that we live with now. The fear of looking back, of looking ourselves in the mirror, and knowing what we have done. We fear another fight, another war, or any other occurrence that might lead us down that path we walked down before. We have hung up our weapons and traded war for peace, but we still know what we are capable of. We still remember what exactly fear can drive us to do. _

_Harry Potter once told me that the greatest thing to fear is fear itself, but I disagree. We should not fear fear; what we should fear is ourselves and what we ourselves are capable of. No one can contemplate the war as a true innocent, and therefore we must understand what we have done, what we have wanted to do, and even what we have only dreamed of doing. We must understand it, accept it, and finally, move on. In this sense, there is truly nothing left to fear. There is nothing left to worry about. Voldemort is gone. It is over. When we accept it and accept ourselves as we are — heroes, villains, and forgiven — then we can really begin to remake this world as we want to see it. _

_It truly is possible to live without those fears._

...

"So have you finished all of your shopping?" Hermione asked as she, Pansy, and Ginny stood in the kitchen of Hermione's house. They had spent the last four hours tirelessly baking, as Hermione had offered to cook dessert for the Weasley Christmas dinner.

Ginny glanced at the glass of red wine balanced lightly in her hand. Ron, Neville, and Draco were in the living room playing with little Emily. Their laughter was bouncing off the walls tirelessly. (Well, Ginny didn't actually know if Draco was doing any playing at all; but, if she leaned slightly to her left, she could certainly tell he was, at the very least, in the living room.)

"Yeah. Months ago," Ginny said automatically.

"Months?" Pansy asked incredulously.

Ginny smiled, not at all wistful. "I think I knew that I was coming back for good this time. I bought all the presents I needed before I left New York."

Pansy huffed indignantly. "And yet you forgot my birthday entirely."

"Hey," Ginny said, throwing a cracker at Pansy, "I paid the tab for that night, remember? I had to return your gift just to cover it."

"Oh, please," Pansy drawled. "It's not a secret anymore, Gin. We all know that you're filthy rich."

"What?" Ginny said, gaping at her.

Hermione shuffled on her feet. "She's right, Gin. The Daily Prophet got a hold of your bank statements somehow; even though they never printed it, I was questioned about it. I had no idea psychiatry was so profitable."

Ginny flushed bright red. "It's not. Not really. I've just never known what to do with money. I live comfortably, which is all I really need."

"Anything over five hundred thousand galleons is hardly comfortable," Pansy said.

Ginny stammered, "Well, you know, the exchange rate worked in my favor."

"How much did you charge per session over there, Gin?" Pansy asked with a mischievous look.

Ginny's skin heated, turning an even darker shade of red. "Not much at first. But by the time I left, I was billing over three hundred dollars an hour."

Pansy and Hermione gaped at her. "What?" Hermione said. "How many clients did you have?"

"Plenty," Ginny responded firmly. "Now, please, leave it at that."

Hermione chuckled, opening her mouth to say something ridiculously rational, Ginny assumed. She cut her off. "What did you get my mother this year, Hermione? I got her a first edition, 1931, Joy of Cooking cookbook, but I'm not sure if she'll love it. "

Suddenly it was Hermione's turn to frown. "I got her the same thing I get her every year — whatever Ron picks out. Honestly, nothing that I ever want to get her is good enough. Of course, he expects me to get all of the other presents, but when it comes to her, he just has to pick it out."

Pansy laughed. "That is exactly why I would never marry a Weasley."

"Really?" Ginny asked with a smirk. "That's the reason you picked?"

Pansy smirked right back. "Of course. I mean, I could get past the horrible hair and the way your freckles make your look diseased. I could even get by the apparent family trait of sheer idiocy. But a little boy terrified of disappointing mother? Merlin, no."

Ginny glared at her, but Hermione just laughed uncontrollably.

"We are not all idiots!" Ginny snapped.

Pansy's smirk widened. "Are you sure?"

Ginny's grin turned vicious as she scooped up a handful of flour.

"Ginny, no!" Hermione said, aghast, as Ginny hurled the powder at Pansy.

Pansy shrieked playfully and lunged toward the bucket. "You'll pay for that Weasley!"

Not long after, Hermione got pulled into the crossfire, and when the boys — and Emily — came to inspect all of the noise, the three of them were sitting on the floor covered in flour gasping for breath as the laughed so hard they cried.

"Holy hell, Pansy," Neville said, "Can't you do anything without throwing something at someone?"

Pansy stuck her tongue out at him, causing another short burst of laughter to travel around the kitchen. "Gin started it!"

"I'm sure she did," Neville responded lightly, a mocking smile stretched across his lips.

"Mummy!" Emily said, "You're dirty!"

Hermione met her daughter's eyes in embarrassment. Then she grinned and held out her arms. Emily toddled towards them and fell against her mother in a tight hug.

"At least you finished the baking first, right?" Ron asked hopefully.

All of them burst into laughter once again.

...

Ginny placed the large basket of cookies down on the counter in the Burrow's kitchen. "Hi, Mum," she whispered.

Her mother whirled around. "Ginny!" she cried with a joyous smile.

Ginny returned her mother's bone crunching hug with equal fervor. "Merry Christmas," she said.

"Not yet," Molly admonished.

Ginny glanced at her watch; it was half eleven.

"Close enough, Mum," Ginny said, hugging her mother again.

Her mother smiled. "Have you been at Hermione's all day?"

"Yup," Ginny said, pulling herself up to sit on the counter. "We've baked up a storm. There are pasties and cakes and pies on the way. I just brought over the cookies. And all of Father Christmas's tidings, of course."

Her Mum grinned at her. "You didn't really get a Quidditch kit for Emily, did you?"

"Of course I did," Ginny said with a smile. "It's a father daughter kit so Ron can start to teach her right away."

Her Mum's face instantly became worried. "Are you sure it's not dangerous?"

Ginny chuckled. "No. But the set says for ages three and up. I figure starting the daughter of an international Quidditch star early won't cause any damage."

Ginny's mother raised her eyes speculatively. "This is Ron's daughter we're talking about."

Ginny grinned. "At least Gred and Forge haven't started breeding yet."

Her mother smiled indulgently. "At least."

Ginny opened her bag of presents excitedly, reveling in the tradition she and her mother had started years ago.

She pulled them out one by one. "I got Hermione a scarf and a nice Muggle pea coat. For Bill's son there's a stuffed blue hippo – it's a famous piece of Egyptian art. Percy gets a book about American Wizarding Medicine. Bill and Fleur get a wedding and Christmas gift of a trip to the Anasazi ruins in Arizona. I got Dad a laptop — a Muggle computer — powered by magic. And Fred and George get the same bag of tricks they get every year."

"And our other guests?"

"I got Harry a United Stated Postal pigeon since he refuses to buy another owl. Pansy gets a bottle of Kentucky's finest bourbon and a book of T.S. Eliot poetry, and Neville gets a book of Native American herbal remedies."

Her mother grinned. "Perfect presents for all of them, as expected."

"Tell me, Mum," Ginny said hopefully. "Did you make me a sweater this year?"

Her mother just smiled at her cryptically. "What do you think, darling?"

Ginny's heart soared.

...

"I want to propose a toast," Ginny said, standing after another wonderful meal at the burrow. The kitchen and dining room were draped with colorful garlands. A huge tree stood in the living room decorated with almost thirty years of handmade ornaments. Presents sat underneath it, unwrapped but still waiting to be played with.

Ginny was still grinning dreamily when she realized that everyone was looking up at her expectantly. She paused again though, meeting each person's eyes in turn.

Her parents sat at one end of the table. Bill and Fleur were there next to them with their son, Charles. Fred and George sat across from them, Angelina with her arm around Fred and Padma close to George. Hermione's head rested on Ron's shoulder, Emily on his lap. Across from him sat Harry and Luna Lovegood. Percy sat next to her, his brown eyes looking firmly into Ginny's. Pansy and Neville were there as well, seated next to him. And Draco, Draco sat quietly next to her, the small smile never leaving his face as he watched lazily.

She raised her glass and everyone else followed. "To family," she said slowly. "To everyone here and those that are not. To constantly defying that cliche 'You can't go home again'. There is nothing that I've missed more than all of you. There's nothing that I love more than being here, now. To realizing what you have before it's too late. And to loving every moment of your life."

Everyone drank deep gulps of their drinks. Ginny smiled around the table, her heart swelling in her chest.

"To never being sorry," she continued. "To accepting your mistakes and knowing that there are people who will always forgive you… eventually."

Everyone laughed lightly, even Draco. Ginny glanced down at him and smiled.

"To learning the value of things you've thrown away and being brave enough to apologize and get them back."

"To love. To family. To friends."

"Here, here," Fred and George cheered, using the toast as an excuse to down their wine in just a few gulps.

Ginny looked around the table again as she sat down. Her father had tears in his as eyes as he looked at her and nodded.

"Welcome home," he said softly — but somehow, even all the way across the table and over all the din of family — Ginny heard him.

She smiled freely. Happily.

...

She sat in front of the fire at her apartment. Draco was behind her, his legs spread in a v that she fit comfortably in. Over the mantelpiece hung the painting that she had gotten him for Christmas. It was a black and white Ellsworth Kelly, a stark and simple triangular canvas.

They were both contemplating it idly.

"I love it, you know," Draco said softly.

"I knew you would," Ginny said, remembering the day, two years ago, that she had purchased the painting. "But really," she said with a smirk, glancing over her shoulder at him, "I bought it for me."

He kissed her lightly, and Ginny turned back to the painting. She was glad that she had hung it. It covered the spot a weasel had been stuck just weeks before. It was a different end to an evening that she wished she could forget forever.

Draco's arms wrapped her waist tightly, as if reading her thoughts. "I love you."

"I know," Ginny said, smiling brightly into the flames.

She leaned back against his chest, peacefulness fogging her over as if she was floating on a cloud.

"I liked your toast," Draco said softly against the shell of her ear.

"Draco, let's get married," she said suddenly.

He stiffened against her back, and Ginny tensed in response before relaxing.

She waited patiently for his reluctant refusal, immediately preparing a series of responses to convince him that it was a great idea.

After a long moment, she felt his lips on her ear again. He was whispering something, over and over again; she bit her lip and smiled when she realized what it was.

"Yes," he was saying. "Yes please."

...

Hermione pushed the copy of the manuscript across the table to her. It was New Year's Eve and she, Hermione, and Pansy were getting dinner before heading to Draco's apartment for a party.

She and Draco would be announcing their engagement that night and eloping tomorrow; Ginny was wrought with butterflies. Afterwards, she would be moving into Draco's place until they found something together that they liked. Ginny hadn't told him yet, but she had found a massive run-down house in Kensington that she wanted to buy and then restore.

Ginny slowly opened the manuscript to the table of contents and scanned it. "Which chapter am I in?" she asked.

Hermione chuckled. "Chapter 8."

Ginny glanced at the title and gasped — _Chapter 8, Eisoptrophobia: Psychiatrist Ginny Weasley's reflections on the aftermath of the Voldemort Wars. _

"I get a whole chapter?" she asked, looking up at Hermione across the table. "How is it possible I sent you enough material for an entire chapter?"

"Are you kidding?" Hermione asked, "You sent me enough material for an entire book."

"Yeah, but," Ginny said, taking a huge gulp of her drink to cool her flushing face, "Not very much of it was any good."

Pansy snatched the manuscript from her hands and flipped it open to chapter 8.

"What all of us have in common is fear? Merlin, Gin, that's a nice and not-at-all-depressing way to start."

Ginny elbowed her. "That shit is depressing."

Hermione laughed loudly at that. "Maybe it's time for a career change for you."

"Nope," Ginny said. "I have no career. I'm retired."

"Retired?" Pansy asked incredulously. "You're twenty-two."

"Well, I'm not going back to therapy."

Hermione arched an eyebrow at her. "Why not?"

"Why would I? I decided what I wanted to do when I was fifteen. That was a lifetime ago. I have the freedom now to think about it, and so I will. Plus…"

"Plus what?" Pansy pressed.

"I asked Draco to marry me."

Pansy squealed like a thirteen-year-old girl and clapped her hands together. "You're getting married?"

Ginny was really blushing now, but she smiled through it and nodded. Pansy hugged her tightly, and then Hermione was hugging her.

"I know just what we need," Pansy said, snapping her fingers. Their waiter appeared immediately. "A bottle of tequila, please. And limes. Lots of limes."

"Congratulations, Gin," Hermione said, half-smiling in Ginny's direction and half-staring incredulously in Pansy's.

The bottle and glasses arrived a moment later, and Pansy doled out three shots.

After a little encouragement, Hermione took hers and Ginny held up her glass. "To being happy–"

"And wealthy–" Pansy added.

"And in love–" Hermione said.

"And twenty-two," Ginny finished.

They threw back the shots and then there was a mad scramble for lime slices that ended with the saltshaker on the floor and all three of them giggling uncontrollably.

…

Not long after, they left for the party, and Ginny found Draco in his kitchen, a champagne bottle and two glasses in hand.

She wrapped her arms around him from behind and nestled her face between his shoulder blades.

_We're getting married tomorrow_, she thought, squeezing tightly.

He turned around and wordlessly handed her one of the wide-mouthed champagne glasses.

"We're getting married tomorrow," he whispered.

Ginny grinned and pulled him down for a kiss.

"Yes," she said softly. "Yes we are."

He filled her glass and then his own before he took her hand and led her back into the living room where all of their friends waited.

_To being twenty-two,_ she toasted herself silently, _and then twenty-three, and twenty-four, and so on._

Draco's palm was warm and dry against her own as he called everyone in the room to attention. "Excuse me, everyone, we have an announcement we'd like to make."

All of the eyes in the room turned to look at them. Pansy winked across the way and Neville smiled. Hermione bounced enthusiastically on the balls of her feet, and Ron glanced down at her curiously. Harry nodded at her from across the room. Her favorite brothers, Fred and George, whispered behind their hands and began waving their wands in Draco's direction.

She glanced up at Draco's face only to find him smiling down at her softly. An hour to midnight, and this year, she had no New Year's Resolutions. She smiled back at him and nodded before glancing back out around the room.

_Welcome home_, her father had said. She grinned widely. _Welcome home, indeed._

...

_Epilogue_

"Do you believe in hell, Draco?" Ginny asked one afternoon, propping her feet up on his lap and leaning back against the far arm of the couch.

He looked at her, contemplating an answer, and she stared back at him curiously. When she saw his fingers edging towards her toes, she flinched away, "Don't you dare."

He smirked at her lightly. "I don't not believe in it. But I think we should be hesitant to define the afterlife in common terms of what's horrible and what's wonderful."

"I wasn't exactly defining it," she said with a small frown, casting her eyes up towards her ceiling.

"What are you really asking?" He asked, sighing as he moved her feet to lie down next to her squeezing them both horizontally onto the tiny couch. His breath tickled her ear and she smiled softly.

"I don't know, really," she replied, glancing over at him. There was nothing but a bitter concern etched across his face. "Are you worried about me?"

He tossed her a flimsy smile, a ghost of his smirk. "No. Not anymore."

She smiled at him and traced his lips with her fingers. "The anniversary is coming up."

He shifted again, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her neck. "Do you want to go to the ceremony together?"

His breath tickled; she laughed.

"Maybe," she responded slowly, but she was already planning on skipping it together.

They were silent for a moment, their coffee and newspapers forgotten.

"Do you believe in hell, Gin?"

She found herself staring at the ceiling again. "No, not really. At least, I don't think so."

She felt the rumble of his chuckle against his ribs, but his question was serious, "Why not?"

"I think if I believed in hell, I'd have to believe in heaven as well."

For a second, Ginny swore he stopped breathing, but then it passed, "You don't?"

She shrugged sinking deeper into the strange contentment, "Not really. I almost want to, but… there doesn't seem to be any reason for it. Do you?"

"I'd like to," he said softly, his voice almost lost in her hair, "But I don't see any reason for it either."

"Why not?" she whispered.

"I like living," he responded, "I always have. I don't want to ponder what happens when this is gone."

When he said 'this' his arms had tightened slightly around her waist and she felt herself smile. The same soft smile she would always reserve just for him. "I feel exactly the same way."

Draco smiled against her neck. "I can't believe we actually agree on something."

The rest of the afternoon had a surreal feeling about it. It was Sunday, their day, and he was here, keeping too many betraying thoughts at bay.

And as Ginny drifted off into sleep as the sun began to set out of her window, she began to think about how she could have possibly made it through all of this on her own. She recalled what he had told her, one windy day ages ago, _You're strong, Gin, stronger than you think_. Perhaps he was right, perhaps she would have made it. But, she realized with a dizzy happiness, she wouldn't have wanted to. And she didn't have to.

She felt his lips on her temple, his whispered words falling on her ears gently as they settled into equally peaceful dozes, huddled together on their too small couch.

...

We shall not cease from exploration  
And the end of all our exploring  
Will be to arrive where we started  
And know the place for the first time.  
_ - T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')_

* * *

A/N: Yup. That's it. It's been over six years since I dreamed up this story. Six years and I'm a completely different person that I was back then. I appreciate every. single. review. because without them I may have given up after chapter three. This is not my best work, nor is it truly a cohesive story. Given the chance to start over, I would get rid of more than I'd keep, but I love it just the way it is. Thanks to everyone who read and offered support. You guys are golden.

GOLDEN xxx Jen.


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